


The Folly Of Calayis

by JamesAMarshal



Series: The Kreytak Convention [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Canon Universe, Fun, Gen, Humor, Post-Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Science Fiction, Serious, tlj - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesAMarshal/pseuds/JamesAMarshal
Summary: Before the death of the Old Republic, at the height of the Jedi Order’s power, a young Jedi, Calayis makes a terrible and devastating choice. The consequences ripple to farthest corners of the galaxy, through space and time...Years later, the Resistance is dead and a new Rebellion has been born. Disgraced engineer, Pace Avers is hired by a young Jedi in search of a ship. A ship that will lead Pace, and young Silvier, to the terrible truth of Calayis’ Folly...Yaela, counselor and emissary for the Rebellion, is sent to enlist aid for the plight of the Rebellion. Instead she uncovers a plot to transform the Rebellion, and the galaxy into something more sinister...As the threads of destiny weave together, a deadly, lifeless future is unveiled. Pace and his entourage must discover the secrets of Calayis’ fate before it is too late.





	1. Pace, Jedi Master

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE (Feb/14/‘18):
> 
> * * *
> 
> Pace noticed the subtle changes in the landscape around them. They were no longer bumping across the endless, ripple-sanded waves of the Dune Sea. They had transitioned to a wide, curving strip of smoothly packed dirt and sand. The dunes on the left had disappeared gradually, replaced with sharp, rocky ridges, curved like the giant spines of ancient beasts.
> 
> To their right snaked the floor of a long since evaporated river, channels weaving through the dusty clay in intricate patterns. On the far side, the dead river banked upwards into a collection of brown, lifeless hills that rolled over the horizon. The hills were capped with rocky peaks that occasionally obscured their view of Tatoo I, the earlier setting of Tatooine’s twin suns.
> 
> Pace saw flashes of rusted metal walls peeking between the rocks, and he knew instantly where they were.
> 
> 'Rish’iki tw’umbazaloo', the Jawas called it.
> 
> Tomb of the Hutts.
> 
> * * *
> 
> \- From Chapter 6 “Tomb of the Hutts”
> 
> I’m working as fast as I can to write, guys, I promise. My Beta and I both have full time jobs and busy lives, so we work together as efficiently as we can. I also have a habit of getting too close to what I’m writing at the time I’m writing it. I have found the only way I am ever happy with something enough to publish it is if I give myself a few days of space and come back to re-read my work. I spot a lot more things that I never notice on the day I write it. Things like terrible wording, inconsistencies, dialogue that is just horrendously out of character, etc. And this is particularly true of chapter 6...
> 
> Chapter 6 is a monster.
> 
> It took me the longest to write so far, and it’s taking the most re-reads to get it to a place I’m happy with. But when it comes out it will be awesome, I’m sure. And it’s a bit longer than the others so far, too, so there’s more to chew on. I promise you’ll love it. It’s from Pace’s perspective, and there’s another iconic location to reminisce over (See excerpt above for clues - muahaha).
> 
> * * *
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> I am not the owner of any original Star Wars characters or material used in this story.
> 
> I do not have the creative rights to any of the trademarked or copyrighted characters, settings or names etc. in this story
> 
> I am a long time fan and lover of all things Star Wars.
> 
> While a part of me is disappointed for all the previous EU stories that have now been written out of canon, I am also excited at the fresh new opportunities created by the new movies.
> 
> This is the first time I have ever been inspired enough to channel my writing into something this broad in scope. I am truly, genuinely excited to share my story with like-minded lovers of Star Wars.
> 
> I will publish chapters as often as I can, and I am endlessly keen for feedback of any nature.
> 
> The idea for my story just about exploded into my mind one night after perusing a thread on Reddit about TLJ. I was trying to figure out for myself the answer to a question asked often in the aftermath of Holdo's suicide run.
> 
> 'WHY HAVEN'T WE SEEN MORE HYPERSPACE POWERED TECHNOLOGY WEAPONISED BEFORE?'
> 
> And thus, The Folly Of Calayis was born.
> 
> It is a collaboration with my older brother, spurred on by the support of my beautiful partner, and much-adored stepkids.
> 
> I hope you all love it.

_ Fear? No. _

_ Anger? Perhaps. _

_ Hatred? _

_ Yes, hatred. Hatred, my first new memory. I am reborn in it, I am its friend, its child. I am hatred. _

_ Hatred of…what? _

_ Life? Possibly. Hatred of life. Of my own, and others. Hatred for those who did this to me. Those who betrayed me! _

_ And hatred of... something else. Something powerful, binding, absolute. _

_ Hatred of… the  _ Force. 

_ Yes. The Force, which betrayed me most of all. The Force, which even now gives me cruel, treacherous life.  _

_ Well, if the force wants me alive, then I will turn its cruel gift upon itself. _

_ Yes, I see it already. There is a mind. I must reach it. _

_ Reach. REACH… _

 

_ * _ __ _ * _ __ _ * _

 

Pace Avers scratched at his wrist again mindlessly, as he tried again to visualise each step in the sequence of events to come. The sequence of events he  _ hoped  _ would come, he corrected himself. 

A large tunnel viper slithered over his boot and he shivered, watching the scales pulsate and ripple as they shifted to a mix of dark greys and browns. It didn’t acknowledge Pace, just licked the air behind him, pausing for a moment with its head above the ground searching, then slithered back down towards the forest floor. Pace turned his attention inward to keep himself from feeling or showing any kind of panic. He was not overly fond of snakes, yet he realised, bitterly, they were somehow on just about every planet with any reasonable excuse for life.

Pace shivered again.

Disappearing under the carpet of leaves and spongy growths, Pace saw the viper’s colors oscillate until they once again matched the muted greens and browns of the surrounding soil and moss, and the giant flake-barked pines looming in all directions. Even here, only several steps from the edge of the trees, it felt no different to when he had visited the heart of the forest. The trees were spaced no thinner, and the forest life was just as much a thick, teeming tapestry of deadly insects, snakes, lizards, and birds weaved deceptively between the branches and leaves, and the rocky, mossy, fungus-covered ground. 

Pace suppressed a swallow, and mentally congratulated himself on his mostly calm state of mind. He needed to project absolute confidence from this point onward if things had any hope of going smoothly. 

Unlike the viper, when Pace soon changed and adapted his colors, he would need to stand out, rather than blend in.

He took one last deep breath, held it for a short moment, then let it out, willing all his anxiety and apprehension to flow out with it. He tapped his ear twice to activate the tiny comlink beneath the surface of his skin.

“Alright, Bee, I’m going…” Pace faltered, “...up there.”  _ Idiot.  _ He waved his hand pointlessly at the forest edge and finished, “To the temple.”

There was a drawn out silence, during which Pace silently rebuked himself - and not for the first time - for speaking before he had decided what it was he wanted to say. Overhead, a blue-feathered macewing chirped impatiently, and the throaty shriek of some exotic creature Pace couldn’t name echoed between the trees and cut though the background hum of the rampant forest life.

After an eternity, the commlink crackled in his ear with Bee’s curt reply, “Ok.” He left the word to hang a little before adding, “But don’t forget you need to seem capable and all-knowing, Pace. When are you planning to slip into character?” 

Pace rolled his eyes. Bee’s prodigious talent for insulting Pace had always lay in his delivery, Pace felt.

“Funny, Bee,” He fired back. “I think I could hear your systems overheating while you put that one together. Was that the best you could come up with, then? Or was it just taking your programming too long to run through all the permutations?” He didn’t leave time for Bee to respond. Adjusting to a fractionally more serious tone, Pace tried to bring the focus back to the task at hand, “Anyway, you’re not exactly helping. Don’t forget you’re as much a part of this show as I am, and if either of us don’t play our parts perfectly,” Pace drew his next words out, scratching his wrist again, “I’m a dead man.”

“Hah!” Bee fired back sardonically, “I’d arrange that myself, if I could.”

“But you’d miss me!” Pace said, overplaying the hurt in his voice.

“No, I wouldn’t. Not a second time.”

Pace chuckled at Bee’s blaster-quick reply, and countered jovially, “Hey, you owe me your life don’t forget, Bee.”

“I owe nobody  _ anything _ .” 

Bee’s voice had a sudden, subtle iciness, something only Pace would have been able to recognise from his time spent with Bee aboard the  _ Seychelles Araea _ .

“I know, Bee, I know,” Pace quickly assured him, his hands raised, as if pacifying the droid, aware still that his physical gestures were empty expressions through the voice-only comm channel. Bee and the  _ Araea  _ were hovering in a chamber in the network of ancient tunnels far below him, but Pace liked to talk to Bee as though they were together - as if it added some intangible weight to his words. 

After a more sober pause this time, Bee gently came to life again on the commlink, his voice utterly neutral, “Pace?”

“Hm? What is it, Bee?” Pace was testing his equipment as he replied, triple checking everything was firmly in place.

“You know I can’t see you through the commlink, right?”

Pace stood up from his fidgeting and grinned widely to himself. Bee knew him too well. He didn’t acknowledge the question, though - he didn’t need to. Bee had known somehow that Pace was gesturing again, and in his masterful way, Bee had packed everything he intended to in just that one simple, insulting question. 

Instead Pace said nothing as he slung to the ground the thin and cheaply sewn shoulder bag he had picked up the previous day at the Poa’pond markets, on the outskirts of Engui’la, flicking a tiny lizard off the drawstring. The fabric was reportedly of the finest quality lowdy-wool. 

“Takennnn from only the healthiessst of the lowwwland rovii young,” the dark, oily-skinned Enguihan stallman had assured him between licks of the air with his forked tongue, “fed only greennn grasss from the slopes of Mount A’utka and clippped at their prime, the wool is worked by the nimmble handsss of our most ressspected artisan lowdies.” All that, Pace recalled, and he only had to pay  _ half _ of what Ra’iktush was asking across the thoroughfare for lesser quality material! Not a bargain, no, but a life-defining opportunity, if he was to believe the conviction in the Enguihan’s well-rehearsed presentation.

Pace snorted. Feeling it now as he opened it, the brown ‘wool’ was rough and brittle to the touch, and thin. He could probably have ripped the bag in two with his bare hands easily enough. He would be lucky if there was any genuinely organic material in it at all, or any that originated on Mandor, at least.

_ On the other hand _ …

From the cheap throwaway bag, Pace took the robes. No sales pitch was necessary for these. These robes were not the type of thing Pace would find at a cheap market stall, and they had been well looked after for many years. More to the point, they looked the part. 

As he pulled them out, the tufts of wool parted obediently, soft and fluid as water between his fingers. The expertly stitched hems, together with the old and clearly well-loved, yet still magically silk-like fabric told him everything he needed to know. These robes, loaned by a friend, were real, lovingly crafted lowdy-wool robes. The rovii whose wool was donated to make this garment had lived well, and were clearly cared for - raised to be healthy. Raised by lowdies. 

All of this simply meant it was now Pace’s significant responsibility to make the generous loan worthwhile.

He gave them a quick shake. Once he was satisfied there were no unwelcome guests hiding cozily in the folds, he brushed the last of the clinging foliage off aggressively. Happy, Pace swung the robes around his shoulders and torso and pulled the cord to fasten them in place around his waist, letting the excess material flow over his legs and booted feet. He tugged the sleeves over his arms, scratching at the irritation on his wrist once more as he did so. Nothing of his mismatched red and blue jumpsuit was visible now.

Finally Pace said, “Just be ready, Bee. And watch for my signals.” 

He pulled the hood from behind his neck up and over his wild, orange-brown hair, and shuffled it into place until he was satisfied that the effect was complete. The front of the hood hung generously over his head, concealing a large portion of the top of his face, and casting shadows over his lips and jaw.

Impressively, there was no sarcastic retort from Bee this time, only a simple, “I’m ready.”

Pace smiled again to himself, feeling more relaxed. The short verbal spar was a reminder to Pace that Bee was probably better at anticipating Pace’s behaviour than Pace was himself. The sure confidence in Bee’s jabbing remarks was like a familiar friend, and it helped to make him feel that, together, they were in control.

Slowly, evenly, he walked towards the edge of the forest. This was one of Pace and Bee’s most difficult and elaborate missions to date, and right now was where their carefully laid out plans would either pay off, or come to a disastrous, and possibly fatal anti-climax.

Pace saw the moss-stained stone of the giant steps peeking through the edge of the forest only moments before he emerged, the trees still grown thick across the line where they abruptly marked the end of the forest. As he passed the last of the massive pines to his left, he saw the first flurry of activity on the temple steps. 

Just as his study of the temple operations had told him there would be, eight Enguihan guards stood in rows on opposite sides of the top steps. They held long blaster-staves that ended in small rounded balloons tipped with a small protrusion where the weapon’s energy coalesced, and projected the blaster bolt.

On the landing above them, standing perfectly central and looking for all the galaxy as still and solid as some emerald statue, Captain Cordassa leant on his blast-staff, his reptilian tail resting limp, curling behind and around him to hang tip-only over the edge of the top step in front of him. 

Cordassa was flanked by two pairs of human guards who stood straighter and more still than the Enguihans. Their scaled metal armour shone brightly in contrast to the Enguihan guards’ dull leather weaved jerkins. Unlike the Enguihan’s blaster-staves, the men held long, thick poles which ended in a large, curved blade. The sharpened blades glowed with thin, pulsating energy, tracing perfectly along the curved edge of the weapon. Sun-pikes. If Pace had not already known from his research, those weapons would be all he would need to see to know that these human guards were members of Revitsh’s elite. Members of what rumours and whispers told him were the ‘Crimson Watch’.

When the first Enguihan guard noticed Pace, he called to the others, and they all shifted their long blaster-staves to point vaguely forward - closer to, but not quite directly in Pace’s direction. Their nervousness was well hidden, but Pace knew that despite arduous training, their experience was not extensive, and so he was looking for the subtle reactions he would expect to see at the unprecedented visit from a hooded stranger. What he saw - small ripples of scales, and flicks of their long green tails - reassured Pace in his own confidence, bringing a small rush of adrenaline, and he had to force himself to keep his steps even. 

The Crimson guards above made no movement at all that was perceptible. 

He covered the distance between the expansive tree line and the steps in a few easy strides, and started climbing. He had to focus on keeping his feet from sliding on the moss and soggy leaves covering the first few steps, and then from tripping on the vines creeping slowly over the edge of the walls that stretched above the sides of the staircase, and tangled down across the steps themselves. When Pace was nearly halfway up, Captain Cordassa walked lazily down a few of the great sandstone steps - not in an effort to share any of the walking and meet him halfway, Pace thought, as much to convey his annoyance and lack of concern, trying to brush this nuisance aside as expediently as possible.

Pace stopped when he was two steps from the Captain - two thirds of the way up to the landing. The Captain stopped as well.

“I am Avelion Parce,” Pace said without preamble, projecting his voice as loudly as he could, “Jedi master!” 

The reaction he drew from the last words was tangible, and satisfying. The Enguihan guards, still spread evenly across the steps, the lowest pair now behind him, shuffled their webbed feet until they faced almost directly at Pace and tightened their grips on their staves. He let his words sink in, if only for a heartbeat or two. Pace caught the nervous glance one of the younger guards flashed to another, and he allowed himself a small sense that he may actually be able to pull this thing off.

The advice of his contacts had been right - the arrival of a Jedi was definitely something the guards were not prepared to deal with.

Again, however, the Crimson guards atop the staircase remained impressively still.

Captain Cordassa, to his credit, barely flinched. He narrowed his scaly, slotted eyes at Pace, and began opening his mouth to speak, but Pace cut him off and continued. “I have come to Mandor, and to sacred Enguirrlar to face Governor Revitsh, so that I may cast upon him the judgement of the New Jedi Order...” he hesitated, and his hesitation very quickly evolved into a pause.

This time however, the pause Pace left between his words was not a strategic one. He swore inwardly. 

A second passed, then another, as confusion began to spread on the Captain's face opposite Pace. Suddenly desperate, Pace cast his eyes over the Enguihan retinue, then the human attache, making as much eye contact as he could and hoping fervently that it gave off the impression of someone assessing, calculating. 

Then he heard two soft and very welcome words buzz over his commlink.

“‘ _ His crimes’ _ …” Bee prompted.

“Revitsh’s crimes,” Pace picked up again instantly, with renewed vigor, and snapping his eyes back to Captain Cordassa, “against the New Republic’s galactic peace efforts are many, and have delivered to our galaxy dark and unforgivable consequences.” To himself, he promised he would thank Bee for the rescue when he got back to the  _ Araea _ . If he made it back at all, that was.

The Captain’s reptilian tail swished languidly along the ground once, showing his disinterest. Pace rounded off his monologue anyway. 

“The order will see justice dealt!”

Pace hoped he exuded a calm he did not feel. The Captain was apparently not at all impressed by Pace’s performance. Pace felt hot now, and he found himself wishing the heavy lowdy-wool robes had not been necessary.

After a few tension-laden breaths the Captain shot his forked tongue in and out once, twice, then shook his head. Pace drew in a slow, quiet drag of the thick, warm, musty forest air, preparing himself.

“Youuu are noooo Jedi,” Cordassa said, with a kind of bored dismissal. “Annnd you may not,” he sucked in air noisily mid-sentence, as if it was a disgrace that he should be made to explain it, “enter the palaccceee.”

The Enguihan’s tensed, their normally shining scales darkening to a nervous matte grey. Pace’s heart skipped as the Captain slowly brought his blast-staff around at his waist until the bulbous firing end pointed directly at Pace. Pace bit his teeth together hard.

“Youuuu will leave Enguirrlar, annnd you will go-” Captain Cordassa did not have a chance to finish.

In a quick flash Pace brought his right arm up and aimed his hand directly at the Captain’s staff. It leapt out of the Captain’s grasp and flew through the air towards Pace’s outstretched fingers.

After nearly fumbling the catch, Pace grabbed it firmly, and swung it down and around to rest at his side. In the same motion, he brought his left arm up and pointed his open hand towards the throat of Captain Cordassa, who was still two steps above him staring, mouth open. Then he squeezed his fingers like he was crushing an invisible grenade.

It was like there was no space separating them at all.

The Captain abruptly went still, and brought his own hands up to his scaly neck, clawing at it, gasping for air. Spluttering amidst intermittent choking sounds, he slowly dropped to one knee, struggled for a moment, and then dropped to the other. The muscles on his neck were tight, the scales flashed in multicolored waves of greens, purples, blacks and browns as he pulled,  _ tugged _ desperately at the invisible hands around his throat. The pain on his face was unmistakable.

Before the other guards had a chance to react, the Captain bravely peeled a hand away from his throat and shot it in the air above and behind him, palm out to still his troops. 

This time however, the Crimson Watch guards reacted. Ignoring Cordassa’s command, they swung their sun-pikes around in a whirl, pointing the tips of the faintly glowing blades directly at Pace in perfect unity.

Pace boomed the words, “Do  _ NOT  _ do anything foolish!” Even as the Enguihan’s belatedly followed the humans’ example above them, and levelled their weapons at Pace, he continued - quieter, but no less authoritative, “Or your Captain will die.” 

The guards shuffled on their feet and exchanged glances. 

“I do not want to have to hurt any of you,” Pace said more gently this time, and it was mostly true, if moot.

Around the steps, rocks and debris began to float into the air. The Enguihan guard highest on the left was the first to notice. He looked over at them, suddenly fearful. Seconds later they had all seen them. A few of the larger, heavier rocks slowly rotated in place as they hovered several metres from the ground, just over the edge of the staircase walls.

The effect was almost exactly as Pace had hoped. This time, even the Crimson Watch were distracted from their duties momentarily. The Enguihan guards were visibly afraid, and Pace pressed the advantage. He threw the stolen staff over the side of the steps, and the heavy weapon fell to the packed soil below with a damp thud. 

There was a brief moment of heightened tension, the air still and silent, no movement but for the hovering rocks.

Pace advanced upward onto the next step, keeping his gaze locked with the Captain’s bulging eyes as he did. With Captain Cordassa on his knees on the step above him, even with his relatively small stature Pace was looking down at him. 

Finally, after agonising seconds had passed, Pace relaxed the fingers of his tightened hand, and the Captain collapsed in relief. He gasped desperately, sagging further to the ground and taking several stuttered gulps of air. Pace heard the in-out rhythm of Cordassa’s normal breathing slowly, painfully, return. 

With the rocks still floating around them, Pace dropped his left arm, deliberately overshooting to let his elbow catch on the edge of his robes, and knock them slightly open. Silver flashed from between the folds and caught the early afternoon sun shining from the west perfectly. The top guard saw the glint and pointed urgently.

“Lightssssaberrrr!” He hissed, his tongue waving up and down rapidly, then back behind his thin, blue lips. There was an unintelligible hiss from the other three guards in response, which Pace felt sounded like a mix of fear and disgust. The Crimson guards took a small, subtle step forward.

Again he did not squander the moment. 

Pace brought his right arm up once more, slower this time, and stretched it out in front of him, palm facing down. He did not aim at any of the guards or Captain Cordassa in particular, but extended his fingers to cast an imaginary web over all of them. He hoped this next trick wouldn’t be too much.

Blue sparks flared to life between his fingers, crackling and snapping as the streaks of lightning hopped and flicked from one finger to the other in rapid and chaotic patterns. The hair on the back of Pace’s neck stood stiffly up. Pace hoped the sweat, which he felt sure was now cascading down over his face, was not visible to the guards.

“I said, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

The Captain, his breathing more steady, pushed himself up and returned to his feet, to stand in front of Pace. The arrogance in the Captain’s earlier stance was noticeably absent, and the hard edged spines that normally protruded from his shoulders all the way up to the back of his elongated head were pressed lower down against his skin. He looked into Pace’s eyes, and his whole body seemed to ripple.

The guards watched their Captain nervously and waited. Pace waited, too. One of the guards of the Crimson Watch who had jet-black hair and beard, spat on the ground between his feet..

“Alllright,  _ Jedi _ ,” Cordassa hissed finally, “havvve it your wayyyy.” 

Captain Cordassa didn’t wait for Pace to respond before he rose, spun around, and marched up the steps toward the temple, almost knocking Pace over with his tail as it waved around in a violent arc. Approaching the last Enguihan guard, Cordassa held his hand out expectantly. The guard looked unsure, but passed his blast-staff over to Cordassa anyway. Cordassa didn’t stop, or acknowledge his subordinate, just took the blast-staff and kept walking. 

Pace let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. “Thank you,” he said cheerfully, inclining his head in mock politeness. He lowered his still sparking hand and hid it back underneath his heavy sleeve, then followed the Captain.

“Whatever happenssss inside,” Cordassa rasped, the two of them walking directly past the Crimson Watch, who followed Pace’s passing with the tips of their sun-pikes, “willll be what is deserrrvvvved.”

As they left both sets of guards behind them, the rocks and twigs floating around them dropped all at once, and hit the ground in a succession of dull thuds and clatters. Pace was sure he heard the dark haired Crimson Watchmen take a sharp breath, then shortly after spit again on the ground behind them.

As they crossed the expansive landing towards the open temple archways, passing the expertly neglected gardens on either side, Pace threw a silent prayer to the spirits of the old Rebellion in relief. Without thinking, he raised his hand up to his chest, clutching at a ghost long since lost. The gesture was still somewhat comforting, if only for habit’s sake.

It was no small measure of luck that none of the guards had spotted any of the three floating rocks that had dropped awkwardly to the ground before all the others.

After an interval that felt longer than he had planned, the electricity snapping and whipping along his fingers finally fizzled, and died. His whole hand, and most of his forearm tingled with numbness. The only concession was that the itch on his wrist had temporarily abated. He could have kept the sparks going for longer, if needed. But he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t temporarily have lost the use of his arm completely if he had. 

He followed Cordassa slowly toward the temple entrance, allowing himself the time to calm a little, his frantic breathing returning to normal.

Steeling himself for what was next, he straightened his robes again, and they continued on through the huge, pale and cracked pillars flanking the first of a set of archways leading into the temple foyer.

When he was sure he was out of earshot of the guards, he muttered under his breath, “Good work, Bee.” 

Bee’s reply was instant. 

“As ever,” was all he said.

Pace smiled and shook his head slightly. Then he let the smile slide away, and breathed heavily.

“Now comes the hard part.”

“Now comes the hard part,” Bee echoed.

 


	2. The Death of Avelion

_ I must remember. Remember them all. They will give me the power I need. _

_ But not in a way they had ever foreseen. _

_ Well, perhaps I am not done surprising them then. _

_ And indeed, they will be surprised. I will surprise my masters one last time. _

_ My masters. Those of the deepest and most pervasive evil. Stupid, selfish, arrogant fools.  _

_ The Jedi were - will always be - destined not only to fail, but to bring death, destruction, sorrow to those they touch in their failure. Like a withering disease, they pervade the galaxy, strangling life whilst smiling a loving smile in its many faces. _

_ “I am your friend,” they say, “I will protect you. Keep you safe.” And as they say it, they cast around them their seed of decay that will eat away all you have built and loved. _

_ It is past time for the rot of the Jedi Order to be turned inwards, to eat away at its own foundations. _

_ But first, I must remember. _

_ I must remember  _ everything.

  
  


_ * _ __ _ * _ __ _ * _

  
  


As they neared the temple entrance, out of earshot of the Crimson Watch, Captain Cordassa turned to face Pace, “I hhhhope you know what you are doinnnng, Pacccce Avers,” he said softly.

“He doesn’t,” Bee shot in so quick it took Pace by surprise. Pace ignored him.

“Relax,” he said, with a hand up to reassure the Captain, “It’s all planned out.”

Cordassa held his gaze for a second, his eyes narrowing, then turned back to face the sandy, cracked archway ahead with a lengthy and throaty “Hmmmmmm.”

“I think he’s got a pretty accurate impression of you, Pace,” Bee quipped.

“Of course,” Pace added, “It all depends on my partner down there,” he pointed towards the ground, “And whether he’s as capable as he thinks he is.”

Cordassa spun and shot Pace a puzzled glance.

Pace shrugged, and raised his hands on either side of him. “He gets it right most of the time,” he conceded.

Cordassa hissed, and continued forward again.

The comlink crackled, “Of course, this could be that one  _ other _ time…” Bee let the thought hang, and so did Pace. He still wasn’t ready to say anything directly to Bee with Captain Cordassa able to hear. Cordassa’s trust in him was tenuous enough at the moment, and he didn’t want to push it further by having a half-secret conversation in front of him. That, and he didn’t want to give Bee the satisfaction of a reaction.

They walked under a thick green vine which had burst through the sandstone ceiling and slowly made its home there over long years. Tendrils dangled around them, searching for purchase amongst the massive supporting pillars and scattered marble statues erected by Enguirrlar’s forebears. 

Before long, they crossed the threshold of a once ornately patterned archway leading into the temple. The pillars built into the wall on either side matched the sandy tones everywhere else in the temple, the worn carvings barely discernible after decades of battering winds being funnelled through the south-western facing entrance.

The archway was no less impressive for its wear, Pace thought, as he followed Captain Cordassa through it into a huge antechamber. Here, four more Enguihan guards in the same unmarked leather jerkins stood spaced in a perfect square, holding blast-staves. Where they stood marked the four corners of an elaborate mural, set out in broken shards of some multicoloured, glassy stone on the floor, depicting a bloody scene of some distant past Enguihan battle.

“Pace, I hope this isn’t a bad time,” Bee chimed, “But we may have a problem.”

_ Not now, Bee!  _ Pace tried to mentally fling the thought to the ship.

They passed the guards as they walked across the surface of the mural, who acknowledged Captain Cordassa in unison with nods, and threw skeptical looks at Pace. Pace swallowed, but continued following the Captain towards a large set of double doors at the far end of the antechamber. In the centre where they met, the sand-red doors each had an oversized ring hanging at shoulder height, forged out of hardened allomite, Pace was sure, noting the pristine and elaborate design that was perfectly unmarred by time, in contrast to everything else he had seen in the temple so far. It stood to reason, he supposed, that the Engui ancestors could work with such a heavy metal. It would explain how the planet was noticed by traders to begin with, and why Revitsh's operation had eventually been established here.

Bee pushed on, “Listen, Pace, I know you can’t talk right now, and normally I’d be thrilled about that, but someone knows we’re here. They’re looking for the ship.”

Pace’s blood turned chill.  _ How did they know?  _

He tried to calm himself. They wouldn't be able to find the  _ Araea  _ in the tunnels. Not through all that metal, surely.

Arriving in front of the door, Cordassa paused and turned just his head to look at Pace one last time. He could not say anything in front of his guards just yet, but Pace understood the look. 'If you want to change your mind, now is your last chance,' it said. Pace shook his head slowly, once. He'd come this far. Cordassa nodded back very slightly, then grasped the door handles, and pushed them open. A wave of mildly musty air washed over them, tinged with the scent of sweat.

The scene inside was just what Pace had been told to expect, but he still felt the breath catch in his throat.

“It’s Revitsh’s men, Pace, it has to be,” Bee carried on, “And they’ve activated surface to air cannons.” 

Which meant Bee couldn't get close enough to the temple to rescue Pace without being seen. 

Pace stepped beyond the threshold and tried to keep the awe from his face, as Cordassa turned to close the doors behind them. The chamber was enormous. Pace reckoned he could fit two, or maybe even three of the  _ Araea _ inside this one room. Along each side of the temple proper, marble pillars rose from floor to ceiling at evenly spaced intervals. Between every third pair of pillars stood more of Revitsh’s elite Crimson Watch, holding sun-pikes out at their sides, standing still as statues.

“There’s one more thing,” Bee persisted.

The walls inside were of the same sandstone as the rest of the temple, Pace saw. Behind the pillars and at the far end of the chamber, windows were cut out of the stone, roughly the size of an average man. Thin, white, transparent material hung loosely in front of each window as curtains, intermittently flicking up with the westerly breeze to let streams of clean morning sunlight peel through. 

In the centre of the hall was a long table of a deep, red wood. Small platters of exotic fruits and what looked like large seeds were spread across the waxy surface, as well as a few metal cups. Around the table, Pace counted eleven men, all but one of them older than Pace, dressed in light grey military uniforms. All of them were human.

“They’re scanning for comm frequencies,” Bee finished.

‘S _ pit!  _ That meant it would only be a matter of time before they found Bee and Pace’s comms channel. Once they had, and they managed to decrypt it, they could not only jam their communication, they could also track the signal to the ship. Bee would be tracked down and the ship destroyed.  _ Unless _ Bee left the tunnels now and used Pace’s micro-jump drive to hop to orbit. 

No matter what happened, Pace was trapped, with no way out of the temple, or off of the planet.

Pace cursed again under his breath. 

Still following Cordassa to the table, Pace scanned the men sitting around it. He knew Revitsh, who sat at the closest end of the table with his back to them, from his dark, curly hair and missing ear. His General, Gajo, Pace had studied pictures of over the previous few days, and he sat at the far end, opposite Revitsh. The rest he had seen, but could not match names to the faces without further study. He knew from Cordassa that they were the men who, working for Revitsh and Gajo, had essentially commandeered Engui and their sacred temple by force and coercion, to run their mining operations near the central Engui village, Engui’la. Cordassa had told him they would be here on this morning to discuss and exchange weekly updates on trade, logistics, requisition budgets, and any other relevant topics, including any issues maintaining order in Engui which might impact on their operation.

Standing just behind Revitsh was an Enguihan Girl clutching a metal pitcher to her chest, her eyes cast to the floor and shoulders slumped. She was not here by choice, Pace knew, and he felt a flash of anger and disgust swelling from somewhere deep within. He would have to get her out of the temple somehow before he could see his plans to their fruition. Otherwise...

“Pace,” Bee cut in again.  _ What now?  _ Pace almost rolled his eyes. “I think I have a solution to our little problem. But it’s going to be a bit messy.”

Moving closer now, Pace could see Revitsh held in his hand a small device, and he was speaking into it, “Thank you, lieutenant,” he said, and slipped it into his jacket. He got up out of his seat, turning to face Cordassa and Pace as they stopped a few steps away. His long beard swayed as he spun, looking first at Pace, then Cordassa, and he flashed them a calculated smile as he met their eyes in turn, the expression strangely more reptilian than any Pace had ever seen from Cordassa.

Beneath them, Pace felt the ground tremble slightly. He wasn’t sure if he’d really felt it, until he saw the puzzled expression on the faces of the men around the table that mirrored his thoughts. The Crimson guards lining the hall had so far been admirably still and silent, and if they had felt anything, they didn't show any sign of it. Revitsh barely twitched.

Pace ignored it, and sucked in a deep breath, ready to begin the same performance he had given on the steps earlier. In his most commanding voice he began, “I am-”

“Pace Avers,” the Governor cut him off coolly, “Are you not?”

Pace froze. That explained how they knew about the ship. 

Reading his thoughts, Bee chuckled bitterly and said, “That might explain why they are looking for the ship.”

“I don’t know why you are here,” the Governor continued, enjoying Pace’s stunned silence, “But your foolhardy expedition goes no further. And Captain Cordassa, you and your men will not go unpunished for dragging this,” he waved a derisive hand at Pace, “ _ Idiot,  _ in here.”

At the other end of the table, General Gajo had gotten up and was moving around to meet them. “Would you care to explain to the rest of us what’s going on here, Governor?” He said.

“They’ve found me Pace,” Bee warned over the comm link. “It shouldn’t matter soon, though.” Pace could hear another sound in the background. It was the hum of the ship’s engines. “I just hope that shield beacon of yours works,” Bee finished.

Revitsh was signalling to his guards surrounding the temple hall, several of whom began towards Pace and Cordassa, their sun-pikes pointed at Pace.

Pace very slowly slid his hand around toward the hidden lightsaber hilt clipped to his belt. The Enguihan guard on the steps had been correct in what he had seen. Or rather, what he  _ thought _ he had seen.

Another, slightly more noticeable rumble shook the temple. It was impossible for anyone in the hall to ignore it this time. Pace noticed a quick look from the Governor to the General, as if Gajo could have somehow explained the phenomenon to him. As if he was somehow  _ responsible  _ for it.

The young Enguihan girl looked nervously around. The men around the table exchanged confused glances. The Crimson watch hesitated, their steps slowing to a halt as they looked to Revitsh.

Behind Pace, Cordassa let out a long hiss.

Bee spoke up, “You might want to get away from the table, Pace.”

“Guards!” The Governor almost shouted, then looked at Pace, “please get rid of this-” he went silent.

There was a humming noise coming from somewhere inside the walls. No, Pace thought, not inside the walls, _underneath_ them. Suddenly, horrifyingly, Bee’s ‘solution’ came to Pace with blinding realisation.

He pulled a small metallic device out from beneath his robes and tossed it at the Enguihan girl. It landed on the floor between her feet. Everyone standing watched it slide to a stop, and then, including the girl, they all looked up to Pace, confused.

The humming turned into a whistling, and then the heavy constant wash of the intense and focused flame of a very small thruster.

Pace barely had time to leap to his side and grab Cordassa. He lurched backwards to pull them both away from the table a split second before Bee’s proton torpedo hit.

The ground underneath the table erupted.

Rock, sand, and furniture exploded out across the room. The ground shook violently. Chunks of sand disintegrated in the air, filling the great temple chamber with blinding clouds of dust. Small pieces of stone flew like tiny missiles into the walls and columns.

The men sitting around the table were killed, swallowed instantly by the plumes of smoke and debris.

Pace and the Captain were flung backwards, and Pace’s senses crashed in on him as he hit the floor.

As his perception returned, groggily, he could feel his head ringing like a clanging bell - pulsing, beating, pushing all other sounds away.

He forced his eyes open.

He was lying on the ground, Cordassa lying next to him, completely still, lifeless.

Pace pushed himself up onto his right arm. The small wrist device he had used earlier to generate the sparks at his fingertips was torn at the strap, and hung limply by a thread, its weight resting mostly on the ground. It was cracked in the center, the tiny power crystal inside exposed and glowing faintly through its housing. He could see the red, irritated skin on his wrist where the strap had been chafing all morning.

He looked around. No one had managed to remain standing during the blast. The temple was still shaking, and Pace could feel, more than hear the rumbling. Where the table was seconds ago there stretched a gaping hole, sand and stone breaking apart at the edges and falling in chunks into the newly opened abyss. Channels of grey metal lined the inside edge of the hole, snaking in all directions and intertwining in an intricate web.

Governor Revitsh had been flung to the side, close to the Eastern row of pillars. He was getting to his feet, blood caked across his face and dripping from a gash in his arm, which was exposed through a huge tear in the man’s uniform. He looked worse than Pace felt, but the man’s determination and military-like calm was evident as he rose to his knees.

Pace pushed himself up onto all fours. The robes he had borrowed, under sufferance of the owner, were singed all over. With a heaving pull, he ripped apart the final threads still holding the wrist-device to his arm, and held the end to Cordassa's chest. Then he pushed the tiny button hidden where his thumb had slotted in, to activate the second charge. Sparks once again flickered to life, humming and zapping at Cordassa’s exposed, scaly skin. Pace grabbed a chunk of sandstone resting beside his foot and hammered it down on the tiny power-crystal generating the electrical charge for the device. Nothing happened.

Pace’s hearing was starting to come back - slowly at first, and he could hear dull sounds, like someone was calling to him underwater. Then he felt a pop in his ear and it was suddenly clearer.

“...ace, can you hear me!” Bee was shouting. “Pace! Can you-”

“Yes, I can hear you, Bee.”

“Finally! Stop messing around in there. You need to get to that hole in the floor.”

Ignoring the request, Pace brought the stone down onto the power crystal with all the force left in his battered muscles, and let out an exhausted cry. The crystal cracked this time. The rest of the power inside the crystal discharged all at once, and Pace felt a jolt lash up his arm. Cordassa’s body shuddered.

“What?” Pace asked Bee.

Then suddenly, Captain Cordassa took a great gasp of air.

“Get to the hole, I said. It’s our only shot at getting out. Well… your only shot, anyway.”

Pace dropped the now useless wrist-device beside him and turned. Revitsh was gritting his teeth, and he scowled at Pace as he limped over. Several of the Crimson Watch guards, who were further from the explosion, were recovering now, and making their way towards the pair, their sun-pikes aiming at Pace. Pace spotted General Gajo’s limp body lying just behind Revitsh. He didn’t appear to be breathing.

Then, behind Gajo’s body, he spotted a faint glow of energy. An oval shaped bubble emanated from the device he had tossed beneath the Enguihan girl. Pace’s shield beacon. Bee was projecting a small energy shield to it with the ship’s shield generators, through a transmitter Pace had designed himself. Inside the bubble, untouched by any of the chaos, the Enguihan girl stood frozen, head tucked in to her chest, her hands over her ears. The metal pitcher she carried earlier was rocking back and forth on the ground in front of her.

The large door that Cordassa had led Pace through earlier burst open, and the four Enguihan guards posted in the antechamber stopped at the entrance taking in the scene. Dust still floated thick and heavy in the air. The sunlight which earlier lit the chamber was now choked by the fog of vaporised debris.

Revitsh loomed over pace, and looked down at him. “What... have…. you….  _ done? _ ” He choked through clenched teeth. Slowly, he pulled a small, grey blaster from his side and lifted the barrel to point it at Pace’s head.

Pace scrunched his eyes together, bracing himself, wondering in his last moments if he really should have sacrificed his shield beacon to save the girl.

Then the sound of a blaster bolt rang through the chamber.

A second later, Pace opened his eyes, wondering how he could still be alive. In front of him Revitsh still stood, eyes wide. In the centre of his chest was a fist sized hole, smoke whorling around the smouldering edges of the wound. Revitsh’s knees trembled, then buckled, and he crumpled to the ground.

Pace turned. Barely upright, lying back on one scaly elbow, Cordassa was holding his blast-staff, the firing end pointed where Revitsh had just stood. A single thread of smoke was slowly drifting upwards from the tip.

For a long moment, no one moved or said anything.

Then Cordassa turned to his men and hissed, “It is timmmme for us to reclaim our hommmmme.”

The Enguihan girl rushed towards Cordassa. The Enguihans at the door all began to do the same, but they stopped and turned when the Crimson guards from the landing outside the temple ran in through the open door, shortly followed by the Enguihans from the steps. Everyone paused for a brief moment, and then the first set of Enguihans turned on the Crimson Watch. Blaster bolts flew in all directions, and the curved glowing edges of the Crimson guard’s sun-pikes whirled through the air in deadly patterns.

The Crimson Watch who were waiting inside the temple ran in to join the fray. Pace turned back to Cordassa. Cordassa was talking to the girl softly, and she was crying. Then she hugged him. They knew each other, Pace realised.

“Pace,” Bee urged through the comlink, “They’ve got ships coming - they'll find me any second. Get to the hole!”

“Cordassa,” Pace said, “I have to go.”

Cordassa and the girl looked at Pace. After a pause, Cordassa nodded, “My mennnn willlll protect us nowwww.”

Quickly, Pace shrugged off the lowdy-wool robes, folded them awkwardly and handed them to Cordassa. “Thank you,” he said.

Suddenly, Cordassa turned and fired a shot off at a Crimson Guard who was closing in on them. The blast caught the guard in the shoulder and he fell with an anguished cry. Then Cordassa turned back to Pace and took the robes. “Annnnd to youuu,” he replied.

Pace looked up at the fighting guards. The Crimson Watch were clearly better trained than the Enguihans, but the Enguihans had the advantage of numbers, and were slowly closing in on them in a deadly circle of long-suppressed vengeance.

“Now, Pace!” Bee’s tone was verging on command, “They’ve got ships in the tunnels. Were going to have to micro-jump from inside here.”

Pace swore. _ A hyperspace jump from inside the tunnels? _

“Bee,” Pace pleaded as he ran towards the gaping hole created by Bee’s torpedo, “Theoretically, my micro-jump drive could do it, but we’ve never tested-”

Pace stopped short as he got to the hole, and blanched. Looking down, he could see walls of rock running down in a ring, down into darkness, with tunnels shooting off in all directions at various heights. 

“Jump, Pace!”

He swallowed, and looked around him, desperately hoping another, magical solution would present itself. Instead, he saw several of the Crimson Watch who had broken off from the melee to come at him. Pace took a deep breath, pulled the lightsaber hilt from his waist and pressed the trigger. Instead of a blade igniting, a small red light began blinking. 

The guards were a few steps away, their sun-pikes raised above them. The blinking on Pace’s repurposed lightsaber hilt quickened.

Pace sighed heavily, “I hope you know what you’re doing, Bee.”

Pace threw the blinking lightsaber hilt at the ground in front of him, just as the Guards reached striking distance.

And then he jumped backwards.

Above him, the disguised concussion grenade exploded, shaking the hall one last time and sending a spray of dust and pebbles after Pace as he disappeared down Bee’s endless shaft.

He fell quickly for a few awful, terrifying seconds. 

Just as he felt as though his head was going to explode from the rapid pressure change, he abruptly stopped. 

He was hovering in front of a tunnel, engulfed in a blue light. In front of him, looming at a modest twenty-seven metres high and nineteen across, was the round, red, scratched, and faded front hull of the  _ Seychelles Araea.  _ The ship’s tractor beam he had modified years ago was holding him suspended in the tunnel, floating over the blackness below.

The  _ Araea’s  _ miniature tractor beam pulled him slowly over to a flat, horizontal area of tunnel where Pace could stand, and spun its awkward shell-shaped bulk until Pace could reach the already lowering ramp. He bolted up the ramp without hesitation, and even before it was shut behind him the  _ Araea’s  _ thrusters kicked in and they started off down the tunnel.

Pace raced to the cockpit and strapped himself in the pilot's seat.

“Thanks for the ride, Bee.”

“It’s no trouble at all, Pace,” replied Bee.

After several turns through the tunnels, Pace could see a light shining ahead. 

Pace heard the tell-tale roar of an IA-64 assault shuttle bursting out of a nearby tunnel, shortly followed by the unmistakable twang of heavy lasers, and showering rocks bouncing against the  _ Araea’s  _ hull. Bee lined the  _ Araea  _ up to face directly at the light beyond the tunnel’s exit.

“Bee!” Pace cried out, “I have a bad feeling ab-”

Utterly without warning, the tunnels vanished out of Pace’s sight, and were replaced by the black, star scattered void of space.

Pace let out a lifetime’s worth of air, closed his eyes, and clutched mindlessly at his bereft chest.

“That turned out quite well, I thought,” Bee said cheerfully.


	3. Reflections

_I will tell you a story of the Jedi, young one._

_A story of betrayal, and deceit._

_A story of why the Jedi must end._

_Listen closely, my apprentice, for you doubtless have heard this tale before. But not in this way, no._

_Not in my way._

_Calayis’ Folly, they call it. Those who would twist the truth. I shudder to think that we trusted ourselves to them. Trusted our children, trusted our loved ones._

_All trusted them, and they spat that trust back at each of us, every last being in the galaxy. Used it to build themselves up, and then spat it out when our souls were dry!_

_I will tell you the story of Calayis’ Folly, young one._

_The REAL story._

  


_*_ _*_ _*_

  


Yaela froze, the cup pressed to her lips ready to drink.

“Pace? Pace Avers?” She called to the cockpit, trying to keep her voice steady. Saying the name out loud was like summoning a ghost.

Neither Pilot acknowledged her question through the passageway, but their conversation went quiet. They had heard her.

Yaela drained the plain white cup of the Mantell amber. The last dregs were starting to warm, but the drink when she first poured it was ice cold. The bitter, malty flavour had been refreshing, and helped calm her pre-landing nerves a little. That was, until she heard that name. Now the calm feeling had dissipated, and was replaced with a twisting knot of long forgotten anger and hurt. And grief.

She put the empty cup on the small table next to her notes, trusting that the reappropriated GA-servant droid would tidy it away once she left. She pushed herself out of the curved couch, and marched down the passageway into the cramped cockpit.

Both pilots turned and gave her a quick look, then returned to their consoles. Yaela gently flicked her lekku behind her head once, allowing an outlet for her sudden anxiety. She braced herself with one hand against the side of the cockpit doorway, the other dangling by her side, clenched in a fist.

She looked at Lieutenant Dand sitting in the pilot’s seat, and repeated the question, slower, “Sorry, but did you just say ‘Pace Avers’?”

“Yes ma’am.” The Lieutenant replied without turning.

His co-pilot Reethers, sitting on the left, chimed in excitedly, “Number one ace pilot this side of the galaxy.”

Yaela lifted an eyebrow at that. “Ace pilot?” She said, barely stifling a laugh, but her stomach tightened a little more.

“Absolutely,” Reethers had turned to face Yaela now, his young, unblemished eyes wide with admiration. Dand shot him a warning look, but it flew straight by the Cadet. “He single handedly took down a slave trader gang on Tatooine,” He boasted, oblivious, “And he outrun- well, not even outrun, he _took on_ a whole squadron of old TIE fighters in the Anders Belt. He stole some of the First Order’s mining equipment from under their noses, then shot down most of the fighters and jumped away.”

Yaela snorted.

“Focus on your flying, Cadet,” Dand warned Reethers sternly.

“Sorry, sir,” Said the young co-pilot, and returned to the console.

Yaela’s lekku flicked again, slowly, the tentacles softly tapping her shoulders. From what she had known of Pace, she and the Cadet were certainly thinking of the same man, and there may have been some truth behind the wild stories, but not in the glorious and heroic sense that Reethers’ telling conveyed. There was no chance Pace had been piloting any ships involved in such exploits, ace flying or otherwise. Pace was once a very capable man yes, Yaela reflected - one of the only men, in fact, who had ever made _her_ feel incompetent - but flying was one of the few things at which he had almost no inferior. Pace Avers couldn’t have flown himself out of a one-walled hangar bay.

Yet the obvious awe in the young man’s voice puzzled Yaela. He was too young to have been recruited by the rebellion - the _resistance_ back then, Yaela reminded herself - while Pace was still around.

So how had he heard of Pace? Who had been passing these embellished stories of a glorious hero around, and how had they made their way to members of the rebellion?

“If I may ask, why were you talking about Pace?” Yaela tried to keep her voice free of of the aggression that Pace’s name spawned in her.

Neither pilot said anything for a moment, then the Lieutenant looked over at Reethers, and up at Yaela, “As a matter of fact,” He explained drily, “I was actually telling the young Cadet here _not_ to let his head get filled with crazy tales of heroes.” He looked back at Reethers again, “It’s a quick and easy way to get yourself killed, chasing after that kind of glory.”

Reethers’ cheeks went red and he sank into the chair, focussing intently on something urgent he had apparently just found on the console.

Yaela couldn’t argue with Dand’s reasoning, so she said nothing at first. The feeling in her stomach subsided a little, as the last swig of her drink settled there. Her lekku relaxed, dangling together between her shoulder blades.

She hadn’t thought about Pace in a long time, and she had certainly never heard anyone else talk of him much since his death. The name had brought back a flurry of emotion she was not prepared to deal with.

Yaela wondered if she should shatter the young pilot’s rose-tinted vision of the ‘Rebellion hero’, and tell the real story of Pace Avers; about his crimes, and why he left the resistance. About why he was killed.

She decided against it, in the end. The wide-eyed Cadet would most likely not have believed her, and if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t much care to dredge up the memories any more than just the mention of Pace’s name already had.

“Listen to your Lieutenant,” She sighed instead, “He knows what he’s talking about, kid. And anyway, these stories are never the way you hear about them in real life.”

Dand nodded his approval, and Reethers just said, “Yes, ma’m.”

Yaela let her gaze wander to the viewport, to watch the cracked, rocky expanse of New Haelstra’s terrain zoom past, stretching out towards a dusty, yellow horizon. “How soon ‘til we get to Aronga?” She asked.

Reethers fiddled with his controls momentarily, obviously glad for the change of subject, “Should be twenty minutes or so, ma’am.”

“I’m not military, or your superiors, men. Please, call me Yaela.”

Reethers hesitated, “I’ll try, ma’am.”

Dand said nothing.

“Well, let me know when we’re landing, please.”

“Yes... Yaela,” Reethers smiled at her awkwardly.

She smiled back and pushed off from the doorframe, leaving the cockpit and returning to the table. The cup she had left was indeed cleared away. She gathered up her notes and took them through a small door off to the side into her quarters, and shut the door behind her. A short jump backwards landed her sitting on the side of her mattress, legs dangling over the edge.

She pulled out and began re-reading the files on Grayare one more time, hoping to distract herself, and taking the opportunity to make sure she hadn’t missed anything that might smooth the coming negotiations a little more. A quick skim revealed nothing new to Yaela.

Grayare was the youngest bothan ever to join the council during the days of the New Republic. After negotiating successfully for several trade rights on behalf of Bothawui, his people demanded his return to the planet so that he could take command of their military forces. He performed admirably in this role for several years, until the attacks of starkiller base destroyed the foundations of the New Republic and shattered the peaceful ties between the primary republic systems. Bothawui descended into a hub for spies and information trading once again, and Grayare took the men and ships who were loyal to him and fled to New Haelstra, promising that he would come to the aid of Princess Leia and the resistance when the time came.

That time had come and gone however, and Grayare had not responded to the distress call General Solo had sent from Crait, as with many other supposed allies of the resistance. Like others though, Grayare had contacted the rebellion since, and Yaela was on her way to find out what belated help the rebellion could expect from his private army.

The only thing in her files that stood out were Grayare’s recent personal visits to several of the Rebellion’s other remnant allies. It was possible that he was rallying support on behalf of the rebellion, of course, as per the agenda reported by Grayare himself in his communications with Commander Dameron. However, there was an unusual connection between all the planets Grayare had visited, and Yaela had a feeling there was more to the visits than Grayare had admitted to.

Which was why she had to be the one to meet with him.

After barely struggling through the first page, Yaela found herself reading the same paragraph at the top of the second page several times, not really absorbing any of the words. She sighed and put the sheets back on the stack on her tiny bedside table.

She lay on her back, and let her lekku part gently under the weight of her head, to spread on either side of her pillow. She folded her arms across her chest and sighed again. After laying there for half a minute, she let out a frustrated growl.

Pace Avers. _That lying, slimy, traitorous sack of worm waste!_

Yaela threw a fist up at the overhead, rewarding herself with a satisfying thump and a painful shock down her arm. _Stop thinking about him,_ she told herself. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply several times.

She cursed the young co-pilot for his stupid naivety, and for reminding her of Pace. It seemed ridiculous to her how badly people needed heroes and idols when they were young, that they would desperately cling to anybody who might fit the profile. _And Pace Avers, of all people_!

Unable to fight her thoughts, Yaela lifted herself up and reached under her bunk to pull a small leather pack out. She rummaged around in it with her hand for a while until her fingers wrapped around what she was looking for. She drew from the bag a small plain box of tin. She held it out in her palms as she sat on the bed, staring at it, losing her sense of time, before opening the tiny lid. It resisted for a second, rust catching on rust, before popping open with a gentle squeak.

“Pace Avers, you stupid, _stupid_ fool.” Yaela said softly to herself.

Inside was the melted, fused remains of a small freighter-class power coupling. She touched her forefinger on it lightly, brushing the warped and smooth bumps along the metal casing. The leather string that hooked through the coupling lay in a tangled mess underneath.

Yaela stared at it in a reverie, recalling the young engineer she had met when he first joined the resistance. In a way, Pace was once very similar to Reethers, wide-eyed and full of the grand notions of glory. Pace had certainly had his own heroes of worship, too.

The comm panel beside her bunk buzzed, startling Yaela.

“We’re getting ready to land in one minute, ma’am,” Came the low voice of Lieutenant Dand.

She slammed the lid shut on the tiny box and shoved it back in the leather pack, and kicked it under the bunk again. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said, holding the commlink button down briefly.

She lay back down on the bed, uncurling her lekku, which she hadn’t realised were coiled around each other.

She had a mission to focus on, and now was no time to get lost in the past. As the roar of the ship’s repulsorlift thrusters slowly breathed to life, Yaela wiped at an uninvited tear that had rolled down her face, and onto her lips.

 

__

 

“ _Pace, may-the-lord-of-the-sith-strike-you-down, Avers!_ What, in the name of all hells imaginable, were you _thinking_?””

Pace winced.

“He seems ungrateful,” Bee offered in Pace’s ear.

“Deckiss!” Pace said pleasantly into the ship’s comm panel, whilst waving a hand in the air wildly in a vain attempt to silence Bee. “It’s nice to hear from you. I was actually planning to call you and let you know the job on Mandor-”

“Save it, Avers. I don’t know how many times-” Deckiss stopped abruptly. “Avers? Avers, why can’t I see you?”

“Uhh, yeah, my holopad’s been a bit on the scrubby side lately,” Pace offered lamely, “You know, performance-wise.”

There was a pause. Pace braced himself.

“Put me on the holopad, Avers. _Now_.”

Pace sighed. He fiddled with the buttons on the comms panel, and activated the holopad. A blue, flickering rendition of Deckiss burst into life above the console, framed in the square plastoglass screen mounted on the side cockpit wall.

“Look at that!” Pace shook his head in feigned wonder, “Just like magic, it starts working again. Like I said,” He shrugged, “‘Scrubby’.”

“I’m not in the mood, Avers.”

Pace looked at Deckiss’ visage. He was indeed definitely not in a good mood, Pace thought. His eyes were somehow even darker in his already dark-skinned face, and his thin lips were clenched tightly together.

“Look, Deckiss, I-” Pace began.

“Shut it. The job was to kill Revitsh, Avers. One man. ONE. MAN.” Deckiss was thrusting a finger in Pace’s direction, “In what universe did you get the idea to tear up a sacred landmark, kill an entire entourage of military officers, and start a civil _WAR?!”_

“Hmm, when he puts it like that...” Bee chirped.

“Yeah, look, I’m sorry,” Pace explained, “The thing is, I couldn’t tell which one was Revitsh, so I just decided to be thorough.”

“You think you’re funny, Avers? Tell me, did you know General Gajo? Hm? Could you tell which one _he_ was?”

Pace shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Deckiss knew, in fact, that Pace was always thorough in his research. He knew that Pace did, of course, know the names of all the men in the palace, including the General. Which made the question redundant.

Deckiss continued, “Yes Pace, Gajo. Who, and this is verbatim from my reports, you apparently ‘blew up’.”

“Did I?” Pace asked innocently.

“Don't play games with me, Avers. You wouldn't be working for me if you didn't know exactly what you were doing. But what you didn’t know, and what you may be interested to hear, is that General Gajo was, in fact, the man who hired us for the job in the first place.”

Silence filled the cockpit, then Pace swore softly.

“That,” Bee said, “Is quite the awkward turn up.”

The muscles in Deckiss’ face were tight, and he waited for Pace to absorb the revelation.

Pace brought a hand up to cover his eyes, and asked with false hopefulness, “I don’t suppose he paid in advance, did he?”

Deckiss sighed, and some of the tension left his face. He rubbed his temples with his forefinger and thumb. “Actually, he did. But only a third. It’s not enough to cover costs, Pace, and it’s certainly not enough to make this enterprise worthwhile if you keep that sort of thing up.”

“I’m sorry, Deckiss, really,” and Pace was this time, if only for the inconvenience he had caused Deckiss, “But I couldn’t just kill Revitsh and let the general take over the operation. That would have been even worse for the Enguihans. Every man in that palace did things which would have made even Vader’s skin crawl. They deserved what they got.”

“And what about what we deserve?” Deckiss countered, “I can’t pay you anything, Pace, if I don’t get paid for the job,” At that, Pace winced again, and Deckiss continued, “Pace, you’re a bounty hunter. I don't pay you to fly around the galaxy and champion every hard-done society you come across. If you want to be a hero, join the resistance again, or rebellion, or whatever they call themselves.”

Pace clenched a fist, “There are no heroes in the Rebellion,” He said calmly, “Not anymore.”

“Whatever,” Deckiss waved a hand through the holopad screen, “The point is, we’re out a couple of hundred thousand credits, because of you, and I need _you_ to fix it.”

“Fix it?” Pace didn’t like the sound of Deckiss’ suddenly business like tone, and his anger at Deckiss’ mention of the rebellion washed away, replaced by a sense of unease, “What do you mean, ‘fix it’?”

“I have another job for you. It’s an easy one, Avers, no deaths if you do it right. And the client is offering to pay extremely well. And,” He held up a hand to cut Pace’s question off, “It’s not far out of your way.”

Pace swallowed his original question and thought. Not far out? There weren’t many habitable systems between here and the base near Rodia. A couple of out-of-the-way pit stop asteroids maybe, and a jungle planet with one or two rag-tag colonies of researchers. No, Pace thought, there wasn’t a system nearby that he knew of where anyone would be rich enough, or have enough enemies to warrant the employing of Deckiss’ crew.

Except one.

“There’s only one place he could be talking about,” Bee echoed Pace’s thoughts.

“No,” Pace almost shouted, his uneasiness turning quickly into dread, “Deckiss I’m not-”

“Yes, Avers. You are.”

“Deckiss, I can't go back there. You know that. They'll-”

“Avers, you will have to deal with your own mess, your own way. _And_ ,” Deckiss once again cut Pace off with raised hand, “Maybe it will teach you the value of a quiet and precise approach. I can't employ someone who isn't welcome on any systems anymore.”

“I’m welcome on plenty of systems, Deckiss,” Pace defended himself, injured.

“For now, maybe, but not by everyone. In any case, I've already accepted the job. There's a man expecting you there within a standard week.”

“Deckiss…”

“We need the money, Avers,” Deckiss said gravely. “Because of you, we need this money. Remember that. And you're the only one I have who can do it.”

“Really? You can't send Byler?” Pace couldn’t quite keep the contempt from his voice.

“No, and you know it. Byler is still cleaning up Trik’s mess after that disaster on Canto Bight.”

Pace breathed out heavily. Bringing up Byler’s name left only a short jump to thoughts about Yaela, and Pace tried his best never to think of Yaela. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair involuntarily.

He tried, in vain, not to get lost down that path, thinking about what might have happened to Yaela when the resistance had been reduced to a mere handful of survivors. If she was at the resistance base when it was evacuated, and on the ships during the subsequent massacre, the odds that she was amongst the survivors was very low.

A twisted smile crept across his face. Then again, Yaela had always had a sort of attraction to long odds, Pace remembered. _Well if she did survive, lets hope she never finds me again._ The thought burned in Pace’s mind, melting away the last of his resolve.

Deckiss was waiting.

Pace finally said, “I'm jumping out of there the second it gets hairy. And I'm not going back once that happens. ”

“Just get it done, Avers. I'll send you the details in a minute.”

Pace reached over to disconnect the call.

“And Avers,” Deckiss added, Pace’s hand hovering over the com panel, “No explosions. Please. Get yourself a blaster or something, for goodness’ sake, a _real_ one.”

Pace smiled sardonically at the image of Deckiss, and flicked the switch. The blue hologram flickered out, leaving just the plain transparent plastoglass screen.

Pace leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his mop of hair. He stood up and walked over to the main piloting console, and flicked a switch, unmuting the speakers throughout the _Araea._ He looked up through the viewport, and watched the blue wash of hyperspace speed by them.

“Bee, set the course for-”

“I already did, Pace. Three minutes ago. Keep up, buddy,” Bee's voice came through the entire ship now.

Pace laughed, the sound brittle. Of course he had. “We'll need to send a message to Repp, so she knows we're coming. Let's hope she'll still be happy to have us.”

“Have me, you mean?”

“Mostly, yes,” Pace admitted.

“Well, why wouldn't she?”

Paced laughed earnestly. He walked from the spacious cockpit through to his small lounge. Fetching a cup from a discreet cupboard at head height, he opened the chilled compartment next door to it and took out a bottle of Mantell pale. He sat at a small table, filled the cup and immediately took a generous gulp, thinking of Yaela again. It was her influence which had introduced Pace to the refined tastes of Mantell liquor, but he could never acquire a liking for the more bitter amber Yaela preferred. He enjoyed the lighter styles, which he didn't have to think about to appreciate.

He drained the remainder of the bottle, filling the space he had just created in his cup, leaned back into the worn cushions, and sighed.

“Alright then, Bee,” he said, taking another healthy swallow of his cool, golden pale, “Let's go pay our friends on Tatooine a visit.”

 


	4. Grayare

_ When they tell you of Calayis, they tell you of his selfishness, his evil. _

_ What if I told you that they lied? _

_ Calayis was a Jedi, or a student, at least. That much is true.  _

_ But he was smarter than any of them knew.  _

_ It was his peers who were selfish, you see. It was their evil that led to Calayis’ fate. Their selfishness. _

_ I will start from the beginning. _

_ As they no doubt taught you, Calayis was on Kreytak when it began, and it was there he made his mistake.  _

_ His ‘Folly’ however, as they call it, was not in his genius, but in his compassion, in his trust. _

_ It was his compassion that was his undoing. _

_ And his love. _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“This way,” the Bothan said in a gravelly voice. Sharp teeth flashed behind a smile that left as quick as it came.

Yaela stepped off the end of the ramp and nodded to him, “Thank you.”

The Bothan nodded in return and together they walked from her transport ship and the clearing, and began through the canyon, heading east. Neither said anything as they walked, and the sound of Yaela’s thick leather boots scrunching in the soft, yellow dirt underneath echoed off the canyon walls.

Despite their protests, she had convinced Reethers and Dand to stay behind and wait on the ship, on the grounds that their presence would impede proceedings. 

“Besides,” she had reasoned, “If this Marshal Grayare is any threat to me, then so will his men be, and in that case any protection you can offer would be both futile, and a waste.”

In the end, Dand had reluctantly yielded to her. The mission, after all, was hers - even if she was not military, and not technically the men’s superior, she still had the final say. The two pilots were her escort, and no more, until they were instructed otherwise. 

Reethers hadn’t had a say in the matter either way, but still he had obediently agreed to follow Dand’s lead.

And so Yaela walked alone beside her Bothan escort through the dry, sandy canyon. Sweat quickly soaked her back. She shielded her eyes to glance briefly up at the afternoon sun, which was trying its best to set fire to the canyon. She could feel the heat breathing off of the rocks that flanked their path. 

Abruptly, the canyon opened up, and the faces of the cliff split off to head in opposite directions, then curve around to form a wide bowl. The Bothan escort rounded the canyon wall on the right and led her towards a small group of buildings and tents. At the very back, Yaela could see clay huts jutting out of the curving cliff face. 

Approaching the makeshift town, Yaela and the Bothan stepped onto a ferrocrete surface, and then onto a track marked with contrasting white lines. They passed a few small tents and huts before coming to a pair of tall, metal buildings. The structures were box like - evenly sided squares with no significant markings, ornaments, or embellishments. They were four stories high, Yaela counted, each floor uniformly lined with windows. 

There were no thoughts of aesthetics taken into consideration in the raising of these buildings, Yaela thought, nor with any of the tents and huts. They were simple, built and shaped out of necessity. 

The Bothan escorting Yaela hadn’t spoken since they started out, and his focussed stride was starting to make Yaela feel like she may have been a burden. For a moment, she considered striking up a conversation of her own, then remembered that she was a guest in their town, on their planet. Let them show the first gesture of hospitality. 

Further up, the track split into two, the divided paths leading to one each of the two metal buildings. Yaela’s escort turned to the building on the right, which was only a few metres away from the canyon wall at its western edge.

Yaela followed the Bothan to the large double doors at the front of the building, and he swung them open, gesturing for her to enter ahead of him, still silent. She stepped in and looked around. She had never seen so many Bothans in one place. More than thirty of them stood around tables and stations, assessing and debating over information scrolling up on transparent displays and round tables which projected simulated environments. A group of six sat around a rectangular screen, showing what looked to Yaela like an incredibly detailed map. A few looked up at Yaela, then turned back to their displays, uninterested. 

The entire room was open, with no dividing rooms or walls to break it up. For the Bothans, a race who thrived on secrecy and subterfuge, Yaela felt the openness and accessibility of information in the room was quite an uncharacteristic design. Her escort closed the door behind them, walked ahead of Yaela, and gestured for her to follow him again. “This way,” he said, without turning.

Yaela started, surprised he had spoken, then realised it was the exact same thing, the  _ only _ thing the Bothan had already said to her.

She couldn’t help but wonder if Grayare was trying to provide a subtle message by sending this particular Bothan to escort her, but couldn’t quite grasp what that message was, nor the purpose behind it. Perhaps it was the Bothan himself who was trying to throw her off guard for his own purposes, but again, she had no clue what that purpose could be. She raised an eyebrow quizzically at the Bothan as she followed him

They walked across the room to a small turbo lift on the far wall. After a small wait, the lift doors opened, and Yaela was hit with a bracing, and very welcome rush of cool air. They shuffled in together, and the door slid closed behind them. A second later, Yaela felt herself lurching upwards.

When they arrived on the third floor, the Bothan escort stepped out before Yaela and walked her into a small foyer. He knocked on a door in the center wall ahead of them and waited. 

The door opened and a black furred Bothan appeared in the doorway. He looked at Yaela’s escort.

“The counselor Yaelyat’kouarri, Marshal,” The escort announced.

The Black furred Bothan looked to Yaela, “Ah, yes. I am honoured that you have come Counselor Yaelyat’kouarri, and pleased to meet you, of course. I am Grayare,” He bowed, and smiled suddenly, “As I have no doubt you have already deduced for yourself.”

Yaela bowed in return, and threw the Bothan a polite smile of her own, “I am pleased and honoured to meet you in kind, Marshal. I would be honoured, also, if you would call me Yaela. It’s what I'm used to,” She finished less formally.

“Very well, Yaela, I will do so, and request a favour in return, if you'll permit?”

Yaela nodded, noting two light grey stripes of fur above the Marshal’s scalp, breaking up the otherwise entirely black coat.

Grayare tilted his head toward Yaela’s escort, “The title ‘Marshal’ is something my men refer to me by, because most of them were beside me when I earned it. Until you feel I deserve that title, in your own judgement, I would ask that you call me by my name.”

“A fair request,” Yaela allowed.

“Good,” Grayare said, and waved an open hand to the room behind him, “Please come in, then. No discussions that ended happily were ever conducted in a place of ingress, I’m sure.”

“No, I don’t suppose any ever were,” Yaela agreed with a grin, letting her lekku uncurl discreetly until they rested comfortably against her back, and she stepped through the gap.

Grayare turned back to Yaela’s escort as she walked past him into the white walled lounge, “Frey’jya,” She heard him say, “Thank you for your services, as always. Are you off duty, now?”

“Yes, sir,” The escort growled simply.

“Alright, head to the mess then, and tell them I said to give you an extra portion of abrusia.”

“Sir,” Frey’jya nodded and turned back to the lift, disappearing behind the sliding door.

Grayare turned and closed the lounge room door behind himself then looked at Yaela, “Chatty one, isn’t he?” He asked rhetorically. Yaela gave a tilt of her head in agreement, adding the lightest hint of a smile. “Please, sit,” Grayare said returning the smile, and waved a hand at a group of cushioned chairs placed around a small blue table, and walked to the far side of the room to a desk. 

“Thank you.” Yaela lowered herself into the nearest chair. The cushions were soft and the chair was comfortable. The air in the modest lounge was pleasantly cool, and she found herself starting to relax for the first time since she and her two pilots had entered orbit around New Haelstra.

The Marshal laughed abruptly, the sound deep and resonating, and it startled Yaela. “Honestly,” he chuckled, “If Frey’jya ever decided to cash in on all the extra rations I’ve offered him over the years, he could probably clean out our entire settlement of its stockpile,” he shook his head, still laughing.

Yaela laughed along. “If I may be frank,” She said, flashing Grayare a mischievous grin, “Assuming you have a decent amount of that abrusia in those stocks, and it is what I think it is, it could even brighten the dog up a little, too.”

Grayare spun his head to look straight at her, his eyes intense. Just as Yaela started to feel she might have made an error in judgement, he burst into a second round of hearty laughter. 

“It might indeed, Yaela,” He conceded, still laughing, “It might indeed.” 

Yaela stretched her legs out, letting the muscles loosen. She found herself warming to Grayare quickly, in spite of her preconceptions.

After tidying several datapads from the desk and sliding them into a cabinet in the wall, Grayare sidled over to another, smaller cabinet on the left, this one separate from any other furniture or fixtures.

“Counselor Yaela, before we carry on any further, I need to clear the air so we can discuss more... pertinent matters.”

“Clear the air how?” Yaela asked, although she had a feeling she knew what Grayare was referring to.

Grayare turned from whatever it was he was doing, “I need to explain why we didn’t respond to General Solo’s distress signal on Crait. Please,” Grayare put his hand up to cut Yaela’s protests off, “I need to explain. On behalf of my people.”

“If you really feel the need-” Yaela started.

“I do,” Grayare smiled, but it was a sober expression. He reached into the small cabinet and pulled out two short crystal glasses that clinked together between his fingers as he put them on the flat surface on top of the cabinet. Then he turned to Yaela once more, and his fur flattened just slightly.

“Did you have a look around Angora before Frey’jya brought you in here?” He asked.

“We came straight here from the ship. But I did see the town on the way, if that's what you mean,” Yaela added, Grayare nodding along to her words. Yaela summoned mental pictures of the scattered and haphazard abodes and facilities she had just been escorted through, desperately searching for something encouraging she could draw from her impressions, “It’s…”

“Sparse?” Grayare offered.

Yaela didn’t actually know what she was going to say, and was grateful for the suggestion. “Well... a little,” she said apologetically.

Grayare barked a short laugh and said, “And that would be putting it nicely, are your thoughts? Don't worry, Yaela, no one is going to hold it against you. Nor is anyone capable of arguing with you for that matter.”

Yaela relaxed again and offered, “It's not really my place to cast judgement, Grayare. But yes, I did notice the… sparsity of things.”

He laughed again, and then drew an ornately shaped decanter from the cabinet, with a light, honey-gold liquid in it, and set it beside the glasses. “I appreciate your honesty. Our discussions here today will prove entirely more fruitful if we are to remain completely,  _ completely,  _ honest with one another,” he said.

Yaela nodded her agreement, but frowned slightly. The gravity in his words was a touch too heavy, she thought.

Grayare continued, “This, Yaela, is the second home we have had to build for ourselves on New Haelstra,” He watched for Yaela’s reaction before continuing. “It was my officers who convinced me to take what men and ships we knew would follow us, and abandon Bothawui after the tragedy of Starkiller Base. It was clear to those who were more experienced than me at the time that, without the influence of the New Republic, our home was doomed to once again descend into a hub for the corrupt and greedy. But I stupidly held onto my ideals of peace and stability long beyond their viability. I thought that perhaps if…” He shook his head.

“I’m sure you did whatever you felt was right at the time, Grayare.”

“The irony in that, dear Yaela, is very much the point,” He purred, flashing her a haunted smile. “What I did - what my men convinced me we had to do - I had a hard time coming to terms with. So hard in fact, that even as we left with our small army, I held on to my foolish ideas. I kept alive several ties I had within Bothawui, in the hopes that we would one day be able to rebuild a peaceful and united peoples again, without the intervention or puppeteering of any galactic government. I held hope that we were mature enough to build our own prosperity, by ourselves. In my misguided optimism, however, I left behind a people even more bitter and angry than before, who I had given the ways and means of tracking us here to New Haelstra.”

Yaela adjusted herself in her chair, listening intently. She had not heard anything of the aftermath on Bothawui until now. She felt for the Marshal.

“And follow us they did,” Grayare continued. “We had a few standard months or so before our fellow Bothans came for us. At first we thought it was another remnant, like ourselves, who sought to join us, or an attachment sent from home, to beg for our return. Until they fired on us.” The smooth charm in his voice from earlier had gone, and he spoke more gravely now, “The fighting was quick and bloody, Counselor. It was too short to be called a war, but the losses, to us at least, were as devastating. The only salvation was that together,  _ eventually, _ both sides acknowledged the waste of it all, and we came to an agreement of sorts. By that time, the first home we had built for ourselves was a smouldering ruin, entirely uninhabitable.”

Grayare took a deep breath in and turned back to the glasses and decanter. He removed the small stopper from the decanter and filled the two glasses halfway with the golden liquid. 

Yaela allowed a respectful silence before speaking. “I’m sorry, Grayare, truly,” She said finally.

Grayare replaced the stopper and then put the decanter back in the cabinet. Then he took out a small wooden box and opened the lid. From the box he removed two small, white cubes, and dropped one at a time into each glass. The cubes fizzed briefly, then slowly dissolved, turning the liquid to a deep brown.

Turning with the glasses to Yaela, Grayare walked over and held one out to her. “I appreciate your sympathies. Thank you,” he said, their eyes meeting.

Yaela took the glass.

Grayare walked around the small table and lowered himself into one of the couches on the opposite side, facing Yaela. “Well, what you see here in Angora, as I said, is our second home. Since we left our true home, that is,” He added wistfully. “So as you can imagine…”

“You and your people have been in no position to offer any aid,” Yaela finished for him.

Grayare nodded, and held his glass up to Yaela. Yaela returned the gesture, and brought the glass to her lips to drink. It flowed like velvet over her tongue, warming her throat. It was sweet, and deeply flavoured - complex and spicy. And it burned. 

She held her cough in as much as she could, but it burst forth defiantly in a few violent spurts. When she had mostly recovered, she sputtered, “It’s delicious.”

Grayare laughed loud and earnestly, “That it is, counselor, and strong. Don’t worry, though, I've known many Bothans who still cannot endure the burn of abrusia. Most of my men drown it in coorpa juice, in fact. Which is why I keep the rarer samples in here,” he inclined his head back to the drinks cabinet and tossed Yaela a conspiratorial smirk.

Yaela let out a small, final cough, then laughed at herself. “In that case, thanks for letting me try the good stuff first,” she said, and took another tentative sip. Prepared this time, she managed not to cough. She enjoyed it even more. It warmed her belly as she swallowed, and she relaxed into the chair, letting out an appreciative, “Mmm.”

Grayare nodded once and tipped his glass in acknowledgement of Yaela’s perseverance. 

“So,” he picked up, swallowing a generous mouthful of the sweet liqueur himself, “We were broken, scattered and bitter. Taking what little we had to Crait to help the resistance wouldn’t just have been futile, it was impossible. These buildings you see, most of the metal used to build them is from the wrecks of our ships that were too battered to ever fly again. Many others are still inoperable, and gathering materials for repairs is, well…” He waved his arms around him to indicate their surroundings, “As you saw, it’s not an abundant planet. Yet we have not enough working ships to take everyone, should we choose to settle elsewhere. So we are stuck.”

Grayare sipped his drink again and Yaela waited. His fur rippled softly when he swallowed. 

“We have lost many. But we still live, and we still have hope,” he smiled warmly at Yaela, “And that counts for everything.”

Yaela again left a respectful pause, both of them enjoying their drinks, before she said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t help one another in the times we both needed it most. I’m sorry that the conflict drove your people apart like that, Grayare.”

“Me too,” Grayare responded thoughtfully, “And just like that, you have brought us to the crux of this meeting.”

Yaela frowned, puzzled. Ostensibly, the meeting agenda was to discuss how Grayare’s separatist army and the new fledgling rebellion could best unite their efforts to rebuild peace in the galaxy. Grayare’s direction of conversation was not following the path she had expected. Or rather, she hadn’t expected it this soon.

“I must confess, Yaela, that I think I have you at a disadvantage here today,” Grayare said, “Despite the rift between my people and our home planet, and despite my regret for all that has happened, I am still a foolishly sentimental man. I have not severed all of my ties with Bothawui. I am able to access information that not many others would be privy to. Did you know I requested you specifically for these negotiations, Yaela?”

Yaela sat upright, suddenly suspicious, “I was not aware, no.”

“Then I apologise for taking you off guard,” Grayare said bowing his head in conciliation. “I wanted you here today, because you have certain qualities that I hope will make you sympathetic to my proposal.”

Yaela put her half finished drink down on the table between them, frowning even deeper at the Marshal, “I would be most grateful if you could explain that, Grayare.”

“Of course, of course. Please, hear me out. And… I must ask for you please to hold your judgement until I have finished.” He paused, and put his own drink on the table. His hands came together in front of him, the black-furred fingers interlocking as he spoke, “Specifically it is your upbringing, or more to the point your lack thereof, that makes you special.”

Yaela shot up out of her chair before the Marshal had finished speaking, her lekku pinned stiffly together against her back. Through gritted teeth she began, “Grayare, I don’t know what your game is, but-“

“Please, counselor,” Grayare pleaded with his hands raised, “Please, hear me out.”

Yaela crossed her arms against her chest and said nothing, but she did not sit. Her earlier sympathy for the plight of his people had vanished, replaced with a cold, quiet fury.

Grayare took advantage of her silence, “Please do not think that I am not sympathetic to the fate of you and your parents. In fact, what I propose to you today will hopefully one day be my small contribution in ridding the galaxy of the kind of pervasive evil and tyranny that took your parents from you, that condemned you to slavery.”

Yaela reeled. Her mind raced, clutching desperately at the emotional armor that had suddenly, and rapidly abandoned her, and failing. In a rare moment of speechlessness, she just stood there, feeling exposed, naked. How much did the Bothan know about her? 

She wondered if anything she had thought private was actually so.

Grayare continued, “You were lucky to escape your fate Yaela. Many are not. Many are still in that hell. Millions, billions possibly, in fact.” 

Grayare’s voice was deadly serious, and Yaela’s fury began to waver, “That does not give you any right to-”

“No it doesn’t, and please believe me when I say that I  _ am  _ sorry. I wish it wasn’t necessary. What I want for the galaxy though, Yaela, is bigger than either of us. It will be impossible to achieve without using all of the tools we have available. I’m not proud of using those tools at times, yes, but I do that work so that my people may feel that pride in my stead once our work is finished.”

Yaela raised an eyebrow, still tense, “And what exactly is it that you hope to achieve?”

“Ultimately? Peace,” Grayare stood up and walked to the window, looking out, “ _ Real  _ peace _.  _ Our galaxy has been plagued by turmoil for generations, Yaela. The Old Republic, the New Republic, the Empire, the Rebellion, the First Order, the Resistance, and now the Rebellion again. As you yourself acknowledged, Yaela, this perpetual conflict is devastating for individual civilisations.” He turned his head to face Yaela, “As long as we allow these never-ending struggles for dominance to continue, none of us will have peace. What I want, Counselor, is for people to be able simply to live their lives, free of fear. Free of the devastation wrought by prouder, more ambitious people, struggling for galactic control.”

Yaela soaked the words in before speaking, “The Rebellion  _ is _ the best hope for Peace, surely.”

“In a way,” Grayare agreed. “I have visited many others recently who once committed themselves to the resistance, like us. They too, have had their homes and their lives shattered in the struggle for peace.”

Then he turned from the window and stepped once towards Yaela, his face unreadable, “The conflict we face, Yaela, it is always the humans who create it, and Humans who perpetuate it.” Before Yaela could argue, Grayare clarified quickly, “Yes, many others have become involved who are not Human. Bothans sacrificed much for the struggles of the first Rebellion, as you know, and carried our share again for the Resistance. We perhaps gave more than anyone to secure the destruction of the Empire's second Death Star.” 

He gestured to Yaela, “Twi’leks also have sacrificed much. Then there are others, who were never given much choice. The Ewoks are certainly no better off for having been dragged into the war. The Gungans meant well, but look where they are now. Even the wookies, for all their strength, were unable to deter the fight from their homeworld. There have been countless victims dragged into these wars, most of them by force, or merely in an attempt to survive. At the heart of all this conflict, though, are the Humans.”

Yaela breathed heavily. This was not the first time she had heard this idea. It was in fact why the Rebellion had sent her here. Months ago, Commander Dameron had returned from a mission with rumours of colonies and planets banding together at the exclusion of humans, to form a republic separate from both the First Order,  _ and  _ the Rebellion. Lieutenant Commander Connix had dispatched Yaela to treat with the alleged allies of the Resistance, with orders to investigate, and substantiate what she could of the claims.

She hadn’t expected that on her first meeting, she would be so openly presented with a solid proposal for exactly what she was trying to uncover.

“What are you suggesting, that we commit genocide? Kill them all? How does that make us any better?” Yaela asked, playing along.

“No, no, nothing so extreme as that - as you say, that would only make us the villains. No, what I propose is simply to free the galaxy from Human interference. To liberate us all from their pride, and their arrogance. I am proposing a galactic democracy with truly equal rights for all, and where all are protected. Where people can be  _ free. _ ”

“Except Humans.”

“They will be free to live and make their way about the galaxy,” Grayare reassured her, “As all will be. And they will be free to rule over themselves. They will not be welcomed to interfere further with the lives of others, however. They will not have the power to allow the tyranny we are all so tired of cowering from. They will not have the power to start another galactic war. They will not have the power to bring suffering to others.” Grayare looked at Yaela intently, “They will not have the power to take children from their parents, and to allow those children to be sold as slaves.”

Yaela sent him a scowl, her lekku whipping across her shoulders harshly. 

“Together,” Grayare finished, ignoring her discomfort, “We can free the galaxy, Yaela.”

Yaela put on a show of considering Grayare’s words for a long time. She wrinkled her brow, tightened her lips. She let the agony of indecision cross her face several times, before finally saying, “Let’s assume I go along with this for a minute - and I’m not saying I will - but why tell me? What role am I supposed to play in this galactic mutiny?”

Grayare smiled, “‘Galactic mutiny’, yes. Very apt I suppose, if a crude representation. Counselor Yaela, I understand your misgivings, and I don’t expect you to give me an answer immediately. In fact, I would like you to go about your diplomatic relations as normal, for as long as you need. Return to the Rebellion, and continue your work with them. After all, the First Order will still need to be dismantled before we can truly find peace in the galaxy, regardless of our plans.” 

Grayare walked around the table and waved a hand towards the door to indicate he was coming to end of all he wished to discuss. Yaela obliged and walked with him, much stiffer now than when she had entered.

“I would like for you, if and when you are ready, to become my eyes and ears in the Rebellion.” Grayare stopped at the door, and looked at Yaela, “We will need build our new Republic from the inside, and I believe that you, above all others, are the one most able to earn the trust of those who can help us.” 

“And if I say no?” Yaela asked, “If I inform the Rebellion?”

Grayare sighed, “It is an ambitious undertaking, Yaela, and eventually someone will. I’d rather it didn’t happen so soon, but it’s not as if we can wrench control out of the hands of the Humans, and expect no one to notice anything. Sooner, or later, the Rebellion will know, and we must plan to deal with that. The later they find out, however, the less casualties we will have to face in the long run. And you will have to live with that if you are the one to tell them now. We will not judge you for doing what you feel is right, however, for that is the very thing that drives us.”

Yaela stepped up to the door beside Grayare, deep in thought. She had to admit, the way Grayare presented his ideas was compelling. It was almost possible to accept that his proposal wasn't completely absurd.

_No,_ she checked herself, _that is not what the Rebellion is meant to be._ The first rebellion was born from a new hope that the galaxy could be forever free of tyrannical rule. Yaela was here to ensure that hope survived through a new generation, unblemished by compromise. The ostracism that Grayare was proposing was just another, more subtle form of that tyranny.

But she could not voice that opinion to him, of course.

“I am not promising anything, Grayare,” she said, as he opened the door and invited her to step out ahead of him, “But will admit I may see  _ some  _ wisdom in what you have said.”

She stopped in the doorway and turned to meet his eyes, “I will think on it,” she promised him.

“That,” he bowed gracefully, “Is all I ask.”

Yaela moved to the turbo lift and the door slid open. She turned to face Grayare, who was about to step in with her, and stopped him with palm up, “I know the way to my ship, thank you, Grayare. I… need some time to think.”

“Very well,” Grayare said. Then he grinned, “You wouldn’t like me to send for Frey’jya?”

“No. Thank you. Like I said, I need to think right now. I don’t know that I could, through his endless yapping.”

Grayare laughed, “Understood.”

They nodded one last time to each other, a thrum of residual tension in the air.

Yaela put one foot in the turbo lift. Then stopped as Grayare spoke suddenly.

“Oh!” He exclaimed softly, “One more thing before you go, Counselor Yaela.”

Yaela turned, feeling strangely on edge at the tone in Grayare’s voice, “Yes?”

“Sorry, I almost forgot. I have a small favor to ask. I need your help getting in touch with a man.”

“A man?” Yaela’s lekku went stiff again.

“Yes. I believe you may know him. His name is Deckiss.”


	5. 'Special Requests

_Calayis was the only one of his peers to ever know love._

_Perhaps that is what made the difference. Perhaps if they knew it too, it would have changed everything._

_It was a girl. One of the first settlers on Kreytak. She was beautiful, but not in the usual sense._

_Calayis was strong in the force, and he saw more than most Jedi ever did. He saw in her a soul that sang to his own._

_I cannot tell you that Calayis would have done it without their love. Perhaps. Perhaps not. In a way it doesn't matter. It certainly never mattered to the Jedi._

_But he did it. He tried to save them all. Not just her, all of them._

_They'll never tell you that part of the story, though._

_*  *  *_

Silvier decided very quickly that this was the worst place in the galaxy he had ever been. He sat at a corner table nursing his drink - similarly the worst drink in the galaxy he had ever tasted - and waited. He briefly considered ordering a water again, but the first day he had done that, he had almost gotten himself kicked out.

Every few minutes, one or two other patrons passed his table and gave the empty seats beside him lingering looks. Silvier pushed the suggestion into their minds that they would be better off sitting at another table, and each time they moved on.

Occasionally, one of the serving droids walked past and took an overt look into Silvier's cup to see if they could offer him another drink. On one such occasion, Silvier could have sworn that the droid, upon seeing the mostly untouched liquid, let out a suspiciously human sounding, exasperated sigh. He suspected it might have been part of their programming to pressure patrons into buying more drinks than they really needed.

That seemed to fit with the unapologetically seedy impression he had gotten of the establishment, Silvier decided.

The band in the corner was playing the same upbeat tune they had played almost continuously for the last three days, and Silvier let his mind focus in on the melody, getting lost in it. He followed the rhythm, the beat.

He closed his eyes, and reached out with the force.

He touched the minds of the patrons around him, sensing an overwhelming rush of emotions. Greed, guilt, anger, fear, lust.

Darkness.

Always, the darkness was there to greet him.

_Come to me,_ it called,  _I need you._

It spread over him, clutched at his mind. Flowing like molten rock over his consciousness. Grasping, burning,  _clawing._

Silvier quickly drew himself back before he succumbed to the slick, oily blackness, and opened his eyes.

Once again he had not found the mind he was looking for. So he waited.

He sniffed at his drink again, then immediately twisted his head back at the pungent, sour odour, chiding himself, and wondering what he had expected to be different about it this time.

The crash of broken glass coming from the bar startled him, and he looked up.

Two Rodians, who Silvier had seen here drinking together on all of the last three days, were at the bar pushing each other back and forth, arguing. The one on the left grabbed his companion by the collar of his vest, and dragged him up to his face. He started to say something, but was silenced by a blaster shot, collapsing mid-sentence to the ground and clutching at his leg, shrieking.

The band stopped playing.

Everyone turned to watch, their conversations dying down to a low murmur.

The second, still standing Rodian held a smoking blaster pistol at his waist. Wobbling unsteadily on his feet, he said something sharply in a language Silvier couldn't understand, then looked around to see everyone in the cantina staring at him. He kicked his prostrate friend as he holstered his blaster, then turned and stumbled towards the front door, mumbling. The bartender called out to him to come back and take his friend out with him, but he appeared not to hear, and instead continued walking, steadying himself on a chair before staggering through the door and out of the cantina.

The bartender called out another time, to no avail. Visibly irritated, he turned and waved aggressively at the band, who quickly took up their tune again. Then he spun and signalled to the opposite corner where a bulky droid came to life and started shuffling between tables towards the bar.

Interest in the bar fight gradually waned, and the hum of conversation picked back up.

Silvier craned his neck to see what would happen to the Rodian now writhing on the floor, but his view was abruptly obstructed.

A short man with messy, orange-brown hair had seemed to magically appear in the seat opposite him.

"Well you know how to pick a meeting place, alright," The man said with a grin, then looked around the cantina, "Hard to believe this is where it all started, isn't it? Where the tide turned in the war against the Empire?"

Silvier narrowed his eyes at the man, "Very," he said, skeptically.

The man shrugged. He was older than Silvier by several years, his mop of hair streaked with grey at the edges.

"Excuse me, but-"

"Hang on," the man interrupted Silvier. Then he turned to a nearby serving droid, "Hey, could you grab me a Jawa juice?" The droid started moving off with a nod, but the short man grabbed it by the arm, "Wait," he looked at Silvier's cup, "What are you drinking?"

"The 'Mos Eisley special'. I was told that it's…" Silvier trailed off at the man's laughter.

"You're not really drinking it then, I assume," He snorted, and turned to the droid again, "Make it two Jawa juices, thanks. And you can take my friend's 'special away here, too. I'm sure he's fond enough of his health not to drink any more of that. And while you're here," he added, muttering lowly and leaning closer to the droid's vocal interface, "Doesn't the band know any other songs?"

"It's not the band," The droid explained in its gratingly cadent voice, as it swiped up Silvier's cup, "It's the patrons - they know what they like. Nobody's been game to try anything new since the ommni box player took a chair to the head from an upset Aqualish."

"Riiight," The messy-haired man nodded slowly, "Well, at least it's catchy, I guess," he said, winking at Silvier.

The droid moved off, and the man thrust an open hand out over the table towards Silvier, "Pace Avers," he said.

Silvier took Pace's hand and clasped it tightly, "Amorak Silvier," He said slowly, feeling slightly bewildered. "How did you know-?"

"Sorry, kid, but you stick out like a stormtrooper in a forest," He threw Silvier an apologetic grin, "Although, I was expecting somebody... older. No offence, of course." Then he spun his head to look to the door and back suddenly, frowning.

"What is it?" Silvier asked.

"Probably nothing," Pace said, and his face relaxed.

Silvier noticed over Pace's shoulder the bulky droid dragging the injured Rodian, still groaning, across the floor and out a door to the side.

"So," Pace ignored the drama behind him, "You have a job for me. I need a name first, then we'll talk about price."

"I've negotiated the price with your associate," Silvier said, unable to decide yet if he liked Pace, or if he was annoyed by him, or possibly both, "And I believe that has been settled. As for a name, there isn't one."

"No name? Well that's not a great start, but I've had tougher jobs. What  _can_ you tell me about this mysterious person?"

"It's not a person, it's a ship."

"A ship?" Pace raised an eyebrow, "I'm sorry, kid, but I don't really do that sort of thing."

Silvier was about to argue when the serving droid returned and placed two cups on the table between them. A tray slid out from the droid's abdomen, and Pace dropped a handful of credits tray snapped shut almost instantly, and the droid sidled off, peeking into their neighbour's cup and letting out a not-so-subtle sigh on the way.

Pace reached out to take his cup. Silvier copied him and together they drank. Silvier put the cup down as he swallowed his mouthful, and winced, "That's not much better than the 'special," he choked, then licked at a milky film settling around his teeth.

"No, trust me," Pace said, "Everything is much better than the Mos Eisley special. And you probably tried it on a good day, too."

Silvier wasn't entirely convinced, "I'll take your word for it. In the meantime, I need your help. I've already paid a generous advance to Deckiss, and he assured me you would honour the arrangement - he said something about you being too expensive for him to employ, for you to be able to say no."

Pace stared at him for a few seconds and his eyebrows furrowed, then, strangely, brought his hand up to his ear and tapped it twice. "Sorry - had a bug in my ear," he said.

Silvier continued, not allowing Pace's odd remark to throw him off track, "I'm not asking you to put yourself at any risk, it's an easy job. I just need you to help me find a ship. That's all."

Silvier held his voice steady, trying to sound more confident than he felt. He'd paid the advance. The deal was made, he had to remind himself, and he was just claiming the service he'd already partly paid for.

Pace tapped his fingers on his cup for a moment, then sighed heavily, "What's the name of the ship?"

"I told you, there isn't one. I am looking for a specific ship, though."

Pace shook his head, "Silver..." he started.

"Silvier," Silvier corrected.

"Whatever. How in this galaxy am I supposed to find your ship. One you don't even know the name of, or where to start-?"

"I know where to start looking," Silvier cut him off, deciding finally that Pace mostly annoyed him over anything else, "There's information here on Tatooine, not far out. I have a speeder outside, and I can take us there now."

"Kid..." Pace started.

"Once we have what we need," Silvier barrelled on, "We can take your ship and go find it."

Pace laughed, "' _My ship_ '? No one else goes on my ship, Silver."

" _Silvier_ ," He was getting frustrated, and desperate. This was  _not_ how this meeting was supposed to go. "Please, Pace."

"I don't care what Deckiss told you," Pace suddenly spun in the chair and tapped his ear again twice, then stood up, "But I'm not poking around here on Tatooine any more than I have to. And no one goes on my ship, but me. No one. If you know where the information is, you can go and get it." He looked around the cantina once, before turning back to Silvier. He spoke more softly, "Contact me when you have it, if you like. I'll meet you in orbit and see what I can do with it."

"Wait..." Silvier felt a moment of desperation. He needed Pace's help, badly. He reached out through the force, tried to touch the man's mind. Perhaps he could just persuade him...

Strangely, Silvier felt nothing. He couldn't touch insides Pace's mind at all. Could barely sense it.

He withdrew his senses, then felt suddenly ashamed. Hadn't he already done enough of that to get here already? Hadn't he subverted the will of enough people?Where would he draw the line? He needed to find the ship, yes.  _Had_  to find it. But was it worth it to let the darkness in? To welcome, and nurture the presence that sought to overtake his own mind? How much more would it take? What would be left of him in the end, even if he was successful?

"Or better yet," Pace cut through his thoughts, apparently oblivious, "I'll meet you somewhere - anywhere - else in the galaxy, and help you then. I'll tell Deckiss to cut the fee down a little."

"Please, Avers," Silvier tried not to sound like he was begging, "I don't have a ship, and I don't know what to look for. My experience isn't in this sort of thing, and I was told you were one of the best out there."

"Possibly I am," Pace said seriously, "I'm also one of the ones who hasn't gotten himself killed, yet, and those two things might be one in the same. Sorry, kid. You're on your own, for now."

He smiled apologetically, turned, and walked away, leaving his drink unfinished on the table.

Silvier stared at the man's back as he left, and watched him step through the front door and disappear.

He watched and waited a few more heartbeats, hoping desperately that Pace would change his mind and walk back through the cantina doors again. Finally, resigned, he slammed his fist on the table.

_What am I supposed to do now?_

He held up a hand in apology to the two Lutrillians at the the table next to him who he had startled with his outburst. They shook their heads, and turned away, grunting and gurgling in an obscure language.

Silvier felt despair creeping into his mind. He felt alone. He  _was_ alone.

He tried to calm himself, and mentally summon other options. Surely Pace wasn't the only one who could find the ship for him. He could contact Deckiss again, and ask to hire one of his other mercenaries. Then again, perhaps he could have Deckiss convince, or even coerce Pace into helping.

He sighed. He was sure Deckiss had already said everything he could to get Pace to agree to the meeting in the first place.

_But it's an easy job, isn't it? Why wouldn't he want it? And I paid good money already!_ Silvier threw his head back and let out an exasperated groan.

Silvier needed Pace's, or someone's help, either way. He knew roughly where to look, he just didn't know what to look for, or where  _exactly_  it would be hiding. Or how to deal with the people who owned it.

He stared helplessly at the half empty drink in front of him, lost in thought. His cup was starting to perspire, forming a puddle of water around the base.

A serving droid wheeled past and leant his head over the two glasses, gave a few unimpressed clicks and warbles, and pushed off.

Silvier reached out to take his drink up, when suddenly two hands slammed on the table in front of him. The table jumped, and the water pooling around the cups splashed outward. Silvier's heart skipped, and he looked from the hands up at…

Pace Avers, smiling over him.

"What-?"

"Sorry," Pace interrupted, his breath slightly heavy, "But did you say you have a speeder outside?"

Silvier looked behind Pace to the front doorway, where two men in tan leather tunics burst in and looked purposefully around the cantina. One pointed towards Silvier and Pace, and spoke in his partner's ear.

Silvier turned back to Pace and slowly nodded, "Yes…"

"Well then," Pace said hurriedly, taking Silvier's arm to yank him out of his chair, as the two men at the door started to move toward their table, "What are we waiting for? Let's go find your ship."

*  *  *

"Thank you for your report, Counselor," Lieutenant Commander Connix said, "We should wait an appropriate amount of time before acting, I think. In the meantime, keep a dialogue open with the Marshal. I hate to admit it, but if he's actually getting sympathy for his cause from our other supporters, then we will need to acknowledge their grievances at some point. We need you to live in their circles for a while, so we can fully understand where these feelings are coming from. Then we may be able to work towards finding another solution, if there is one."

"Yes, Commander," Yaela said.

"Alright. We'll send through new orders for you shortly. In the meantime, may the Force be with you."

"Thank you."

"And Yaela," Connix said, "We appreciate your work."

Yaela smiled, and Connix returned the gesture. Then the hologram flickered out.

Yaela relaxed in her chair, leaning back and swivelling around in it. She stared at the walls inside the comm room, lined with endless rows of buttons, levers and blinking lights. Metallic edges jutted out at random intervals along the bulkhead, creating a square zigzag pattern which reminded Yaela of a set of giant, poorly maintained teeth. Like most of the equipment the Rebellion used, the  _Rook_  had been constructed from a mismatched collection of repurposed wreckage from salvaged vessels. There was a unique charm in the awkward patchwork, she thought. The sheer industry of the engineers shone through in their design - a perfect testament, Yaela decided, to the relentless tenacity which burned in the heart of the Rebellion itself.

Yaela allowed the tension of the day to melt away. Mentally willed it out from her body and imagined it flowing into the chair.

She hadn't really ever considered siding with Grayare's cause and keeping her revelations from Connix. No, she was completely loyal to the Rebellion, Humans included.

But whenever she held information as loaded as she had after her conversation with Grayare, she always felt she carried a heavy strain. It was as if some invisible force held a string taut, running through her from top to bottom, that was ready to snap if she didn't step carefully enough.

Only now, after she had reported everything honestly and in detail, did Yaela feel the burden was passed to another, and she was free to move and act, once again, with ease.

Although now she felt drained, she reflected.

She allowed herself a few minutes to sit and unload the events of the last day from her mind.

Just when she thought she had dealt with the day's total sum of twists and turns, and she was ready to leave Grayare's base, and Angora, Grayare had mentioned Deckiss. At first, she was surprised, almost panicked, but then the thought of Deckiss had inevitably led to thoughts once more of Pace, and she had been forced instead to fight down the waves of frustration, anger and a dozen other emotions all over again.

It was exhausting to even think about.

She had considered lying to Grayare and telling him she had no connection with Deckiss, but decided against it. There was a chance, since Grayare had known about her parents and her history as a slave, that he also already knew exactly what her connection to Deckiss was, and she needed Grayare's trust for now. If he did already know, and she tried to lie, that trust would be hard, if not impossible to earn.

So she had promised she would at least try and get the message to Deckiss to contact Grayare, and they left it at that.

When she felt ready, Yaela turned back to the communications console in front of her and switched the commlink button to patch through to the cockpit.

"I'm done with the first call, Lieutenant, thank you. Could you patch me through with the second frequency now, please?"

"Yes Ma'am," Came Lieutenant Dand's low reply.

"Wait a sec," Reethers' timid voice cut in, "I wanted to say sorry, Yaela."

_Sorry?_ Yaela thought, then asked "Sorry for what?"

"Yesterday. It was stupid of me to talk about Pace like that."

_Mynock's spit,_ Yaela thought, rolling her eyes,  _can I not escape the man!?_ "It's fine, kid, don't sweat it," She assured him, hoping he would zip it, and leave it at that.

"No, really. I didn't realise-"

"Kid, I said it's fine," she said, a little more sternly this time. Reethers was not getting the message, Yaela thought, feeling her earlier tension starting to creep back.

"But if Dand had told me before that you know him-"

"Cadet!" With Yaela's outburst, the comlink went silent.  _Finally_ , Yaela thought, as the silence drew out.

No one said anything for several laboured seconds, and her anger dissolved. Her lekku sagged behind her. She had been unfair on the Cadet.

_The poor kid was trying to apologise, you idiot_ , she admonished herself.

"Look, it's fine, Reethers, really. I wasn't a big supporter of his, though, so I'd just be happy to drop it."

"Yes, Ma'am," came the soft, curt reply.

Yaela sighed, "I'm sorry, kid. I didn't mean to snap. I know you meant well, and your apology is appreciated, but not necessary. It's been a long day, please don't let me get to you."

Silence again.

"Patching the call through, Ma'am," Dand said, sounding a little impatient. He was probably getting ready to give the poor Cadet beside him a chewing out once she was off the comm, and the thought made Yaela feel even worse. But before she could offer any more conciliations, the commlink buzzed out, and was replaced with the sound of a deep pulsing.

Yaela pushed her guilt away for now and waited for someone to answer the deep space hail.

After several minutes of waiting, something faint took purchase in her mind. A vague niggling sensation. Like something was not quite right...

A hologram flickered to life in front of her, and she suppressed the unsettling thought. A thin red-haired girl wearing goggles came into view, frowning at Yaela.

"Yes?"

"Hi, Yasin. Nice to see you, too. I have a message for Deckiss."

"Interesting," she raised an eyebrow, "And what could you possibly have to say to Deckiss?"

"Someone wants to get in touch with him, that's all. I said I'd pass on the message, as a favor."

"By all means, Yaela, pass Deckiss' name around as much as you can," Yasin's voice oozed sarcasm, "His only dream is to become the leader of the galaxy's most famous  _covert_  smuggling ring."

Yaela laughed sardonically, "Oh? Just smuggling, is it?"

"Like I said - ' _covert'_."

Yaela felt the niggling again. What was her subconscious trying to tell her? It was… something about her conversation with the Cadet. Was it just her guilt? Just her conscience silently reprimanding her for snapping at the kid?

Yasin was staring blankly at her still, waiting, and Yaela suppressed the feeling again.

"Look, he already had Deckiss' name," she said, "I don't know how. But he wants to hire someone. It's a job, alright. That's all, just work."

Yasin stared at her for a few seconds. "Well who's the client?" She said finally.

"He's a Bothan," Yaela explained. "His name is Grayare. He's with the rebellion. He's in Angora, on the New Haelstra system. I've already sent through a hailing frequency. Deckiss can contact him if he wants. Or not. I just promised I'd pass it on."

Yasin raised one eyebrow, "I'll think about it. What kind of job are we talking about?"

"I don't know, exactly," Yaela admitted. "He said something about finding someone, but that was all. I'm sure Byler is up to the-" Yaela stopped, eyes widening.

The source of the niggling feeling had suddenly burst into a full force realisation. It was indeed something about her conversation with Reethers. Something the Cadet had said…

"Just give me a second, please Yasin," She flashed a mocking smile, and before Yasin could reply, Yaela muted the connection. Yasin's holographic face froze in place, hovering above the holopad, mouth open about to protest. Ignoring her, Yaela pushed a button to signal the cockpit again.

Her heart was thumping in her chest, and she felt a lump rising in her throat.

The commlink buzzed, "Ma'am," Lieutenant Dand questioned, "Our connection with your friend is still open, everything alright?"

"Yes, fine," Yaela dismissed the Lieutenant, "Reethers? Cadet?"

There was a pause.

"Yes... Yaela?" Reethers' voice had softened, and he sounded timid again, like he was getting ready to endure another scolding.

"What did you mean, 'know him'?"

"I, um. Pardon?"

"When you said if Dand had told you that I 'know him'? That I knowPace? Not knewhim,  _know_ him?"

"I'm sorry, I don't… I guess I didn't mean that you still know him, just that… I don't know," The Cadet's voice was starting to shake. "You don't know him anymore?"

Yaela tried to speak slowly, to remain calm, "Pace is dead, Cadet. You know that right? He was killed by a bounty hunter."

Silence.

"I didn't… I don't think so, Yaela."

Yaela's heart skipped a beat. She breathed slowly for a few seconds before speaking again, "Reethers, what do you mean you 'don't think so'?"

"Well, maybe he is," The Cadet said, speaking rapidly, "I don't know, I didn't think so. The pilots on Mak'leth talk about him a lot, like he's still alive. They have new stories all the time."

_Breathe, Yaela,_ she told herself, trying to summon an impossible calm in a storm of crashing thoughtsPace couldn't still be alive, there was no way.  _Unless_ …

She sighed heavily, as a part of her life she had thought long dead came sputtering forth. Like a great and eternal beast from the depths of the Naboo oceans - long forgotten by the generations of Human and Gungan colonies that swarmed the planet's hills and mountains - her memories of Pace surfaced for a small taste of sun and air, after years of lurking in the murky depths.

"Dand," Yaela said, her gut churning, "Before we get my new orders, could you please take us to Mak'leth. I'd like to hear some of these stories myself."

"Yes, Ma'-"

She flicked the switch and disconnected the link to the cockpit before letting the Lieutenant finish, then restored her connection with Yasin again.

"Yaela, finally! I don't exactly appreci-"

"Shut up, Yasin," Yaela's voice was as icy as a comet, and she spoke through clenched teeth, "I have a new message for Deckiss. Tell him I need to talk with him.  _Myself."_

"Ugh," Yasin groaned, "He's not some emissary, you know, responding to calls from this person and that whenever they feel like talking to him. That's why he has me. And you're starting to make me feel like I don't have any value."

"I don't care how you feel," Yaela snapped, "Get. Me.  _Deckiss_."

Yasin folded her arms and raised another eyebrow at Yaela. Finally, she groaned again and rolled her eyes, "I'll see what I can do. But I gotta say, I'm not liking being bossed around."

Yaela didn't bother responding, just cut the call off with a flick of her hand. She closed her eyes and tried once again to calm her state of mind.

_Pace Avers, I swear if you're alive…_

She spun in her chair. Either way, she was going to find out.


	6. Tomb of the Hutts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I loved writing this chapter, then I hated it, and after my brother read it and told me what I needed to change, I loved it again, even more.
> 
> It’s a huge chapter, with some new mysteries developing, a little backstory, a touch of nostalgia (with a twist), and some action. It took me a lot longer to write than any of my other chapters. I had to go back and re-read several times before I was happy with it. I really wanted to nail the descriptions of all the classic Star Wars icons and settings I remember seeing as a wide-eyed child.
> 
> I own a few old Star Wars visual dictionaries, and I actually sat on my bed for hours looking at the pictures, trying to figure out how best to describe all the little, crucial details.
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter, and I’m super keen to hear (read) your thoughts on it.
> 
> And just in case you’re interested, while I wrote most of this chapter, I listened to the “Riven” soundtrack on Spotify, on my brother’s suggestion. It’s from a game which is still in my all-time top ten favourite games of all time, and if you’re into setting yourself an atmosphere while you read, I enthusiastically pass on his recommendation to you. Just search for it on whatever platform you use to listen to music, or YouTube if you don’t have one.

_Tell me, can you feel the truth? Can you sense it?_

_No? You have no answer? Really, young one?_

_You say you know the force. You call yourself a Jedi._

_Maybe you are. But maybe you are not._

_Maybe you can help me._

_Yes. I can show you the truth, if you help me. I can show you the ways of the force._

_I can show you what the Jedi were always too afraid to show us._

_Yes, the Jedi were afraid. Always afraid._

_Afraid of anger. Of hate. Afraid of fear itself._

_Afraid of the dark side._

_Afraid to feel._

_Oh, young one. What have they taught you?_

_I can feel it, your soul. It is a broken mirror, shattered in so many pieces. You are afraid even to feel anything, just like the Jedi of old._

_And yet, like the Jedi, you have so much fear._

_It's not too late for you. I sense it._

_Do not fear._

_I will show you the way._

_I will show you how to feel._

_Cast aside your fear._

_Calayis was not afraid to feel._

_I will show you his path._

_But… I need your help._

 

_*  *  *_

 

"Tell me, Silver, how did you end up in a place like this with no ship?" Pace asked, comfortable they had put enough distance between themselves and the spaceport. He reached into a small satchel on his belt as he asked the question, and pulled out three tiny black disks.

"It's _Silvier,"_ Silvier corrected again, exasperated. "And I had a ship. I sold it. To pay for you."

"Oh," was all Pace could say, pausing in his work for a moment. He was flattered in a way, but mildly alarmed by the thought. He wasn't exactly supposed to be building himself a reputation. Unless Silvier had some powerful connections, he couldn't fathom how the kid had found Pace's name.

Maybe Deckiss had a point about Pace's use of discretion - or rather his lack thereof.

"Where are you from, kid?" Pace probed.

"Laccet Six," Silvier kept his eyes forward when he replied this time, surveying the sandy, desolate expanses of the Dune Sea as they skimmed over it, "Not that it matters. There's nothing interesting there, and I can't really go back anyway." Silvier's voice turned distant, "Well, actually, I was born on Hosnian Prime, but I can't exactly go back there either, can I?"

Pace couldn't think of an appropriate response to that. Hosnian Prime, as any moderately informed person knew, was once the bustling hub of the New Republic, before it was destroyed in the attack by Starkiller Base. Laccet Six, on the other hand, he felt he'd heard of, but he couldn't summon up any meaningful recollection of the planet in that moment.

Bee chirped to life in his ear. "Laccet Six is an icy rock, Pace," He said, filling in one of Pace's many gaps in lesser-known system knowledge. "Technically it's in the Outer Rim, but only just. It sits so close to the border, in fact, that it's orbit actually deviates through wild space for almost a whole standard year out of every six. There's no civilian settlements on it. The Kir-T.O. agency apparently own it, and the other four planets in the system. They mine the ice on Laccet Six's surface to sell and export it to drier systems."

_Like Tatooine_ \- That was probably how Pace had heard of it. "You're an ice miner?" He asked Silvier.

" _Was_ an ice miner," Silvier clarified, "How did you-".

"You've been to Tatooine before, then, haven't you?"

Silvier hesitated, then nodded, his eyes unmoving from the horizon.

Shifting across the open space in the back of the speeder - which was almost big enough to be a barge, Pace thought - he reached over the right side and attached one of the black disks from his belt to the impeccably silver outer plating.

Once Pace felt it clamp on, he took his hand away and watched. A blue light blinked once. Happy, Pace moved over to the other side and repeated the process. Then once more at the very back of the speeder.

"What are you doing?" Silvier queried.

"It's just a precaution," Pace explained quickly, "I'm just playing a hunch. Nothing to worry about." For good measure he flashed a reassuring smile at the young man.

Silvier left it, but he didn't look entirely satisfied as he turned to the passing sand dunes again.

Finished with the disks, Pace sat back in his seat and slid the sleeve back on his right arm to reveal a small console strapped there. He tapped a few commands into it. A few short breaths later, his private comlink came to life again, Bee's voice crackling through, "Yes, the tractor beam is ready. If I detect anything out there I'll track it."

Pace punched a thanks into the console, paused for a moment, then tapped at it again.

"Speeder bikes?" Bee asked in response, "I'll see what Repp has lying around. Just tell me when you get to wherever you're going, and I'll send something to you. Speaking of Repp, she's asking when you're planning to take your 'ugly slug of a ship' out of her junkyard. She says I'm burning a hole in her landing pad."

Pace tapped a short message back on the console.

"I'll, uh, translate that for her, shall I?" Bee said.

Pace didn't mind whether he 'translated' it or not. As much as Repp was sticking her neck out housing the _Araea_ , she took her money's worth from the service.

"Who were those guys, anyway?" Silvier asked suddenly, "Back there, in the Cantina? And how did you know your way through all those buildings? Are you from here?"

"I did a job here a while back," Pace decided to be honest with the kid, "Spent a few months… researching."

It was mostly honest, anyway.Over his comlink, Pace heard a quiet tut of disapproval.

"Researching?" Silvier asked.

"Yeah, gathering information, more or less. Don't worry about it, kid. I just... didn't make a lot of friends while I was here."

Mercifully, Bee didn't comment. Silvier just said, "Oh, ok."

"What is it about this ship, that you want to find it so bad, anyway?" Pace said, in an effort to change the subject.

"I don't… really know for sure."

Pace couldn't help but laugh, earning him a frown from Silvier, and he put a hand up in apology. "Sorry, sorry. But you have to admit you're not really giving me much to go on, here," he reasoned, unable to sound completely serious. "I've had some tough jobs before, but-"

"My brother," Silvier said, cutting Pace off. "I'm looking for my brother."

"Your brother." Pace repeated, nodding. That explained the desperation in Silvier's plea back in the Cantina. "So the ship belongs to…"

Pace broke off as he noticed the subtle changes in the landscape around them. They were no longer bumping across the endless, ripple-sanded waves of the Dune Sea. They had transitioned to a wide, curving strip of smoothly packed dirt and sand. The dunes on the left had disappeared gradually, replaced with sharp, rocky ridges, curved like the giant spines of ancient beasts.

To their right snaked the floor of a long since evaporated river, channels weaving through the dusty clay in intricate patterns. On the far side, the dead river banked upwards into a collection of brown, lifeless hills that rolled over the horizon. The hills were capped with rocky peaks that occasionally obscured their view of Tatoo I, the earlier setting of Tatooine's twin suns.

Pace saw flashes of rusted metal walls peeking between the rocks, and he knew instantly where they were.

_Rish'iki tw'umbazaloo_ , the Jawas called it.

Tomb of the Hutts.

"Silver..." Pace began nervously, then stopped. Silvier had sold his ship, virtually stranding himself on a dead end, desert planet to buy Pace's help. For whatever reason, he thought his mystery ship could lead him to his brother, and he clearly had no lack of resolve in finding it. The ghost stories that attempted to explain the decline of _Rish'iki tw'umbazaloo_ were obviously not enough to deter him. So nothing Pace could say would likely sway him either.

Silvier turned to Pace, puzzled at his unspoken question.

"I hope you know what you're doing, is all," Pace said.

Silvier frowned, and turned back to the path. It was the first time he hadn't tried to correct Pace's mispronunciation of his name.

Pace looked hard at the youth. He couldn't help but marvel at his tenacity. Somehow, working as an ice miner in the far reaches of the galaxy, the kid had earned himself a ship. Just that was an impressive feat - the _Araea_ was the first ship Pace had ever owned, and it was nearly forty years before he was able to gather the resources for it. Silvier was less than half his age, judging by his unblemished face, and he had managed to obtain a ship in less than half that time, whilst living on the edges of wild space.

Then again, Pace thought to himself, perhaps he hadn't earned it at all. Perhaps he had ties to the Kir-T.O. agency. He could have been better connected than Pace had initially guessed. Although, if that was the case, he more than likely wouldn't have had to sell it.

He might have inherited the ship, then. If he had family living on Hosnian Prime, where he said he was born, they could have been on the planet when it was destroyed. Aside from the brother he was so determined to find, they could all be dead. Which would certainly explain some of Silvier's more adult demeanour.

It was also possible, Pace realised, reflecting on his own history, that Silvier had in fact never owned the ship at all. He could have stolen it. In which case, selling it wouldn't have been a risky move at all, so much as the only sensible course of action. It didn't take a genius to understand that flying around in a stolen ship, leaving a hot trail across the galaxy, was a bad idea. It was entirely possible, Pace thought, in which case he would need to distance himself from Silvier as soon as possible.

Rounding a taller set of rocky formations, Pace saw the palace come full into view. Six ditanium plated towers rose into the afternoon sky, spread evenly over a mesa which was inset amongst the hills at their tallest and rockiest. The centre structure, which Pace knew was the main entrance to the palace, was thicker than the others by several times. Each tower was slightly tapered towards their wide, conical roofs, giving them the appearance of short, stubby projectiles, forever frozen in launch towards the atmosphere.

Pace had never visited this place, but like everyone else, he had heard enough about it to never want to. All the glorious, and not-so-glorious tales of intrigue and heroism that clung to its dank hallways and chambers, from the days when Jabba the Hutt and his gang occupied the palace, to its more recent dilapidation. This is where Pace's childhood hero, Han, had been rescued by the legendary Jedi Luke Skywalker and his friends. Further out from the Dune Sea was the fabled pit of Carkoon, where Jabba's many enemies had rigged his sail barge with explosives, and the Rebels had escaped their fate to rejoin, and eventually win the fight to overthrow the Empire.

Although he dreaded the palace, Pace felt a certain childlike awe following the path of the old Rebellion heroes, and a shiver of anticipation washed over him. Then he recalled the tales after Jabba's death, and he shivered again, for an entirely different reason. Absent-mindedly, his hand came up to touch the front of his jumpsuit at his chest.

"Are you going where I think you're going?" Bee asked over the comlink, and Pace tapped a confirmation into his console. "Right. Good luck, then, I guess."

Pace rolled his eyes. _Thanks for the reassurance, Bee._

They travelled the last stretch of road unspeaking. Small cracks became large, and the dirt track and dry riverbed eventually merged until they were no longer separate, and the bumps became impossible to safely speed over. Silvier brought the speeder as close as he could to the main palace building, before the road disappeared altogether, and they hopped out together to make their way on foot to the huge, fortified front gate.

As they closed the distance to the palace, Pace was chilled by the eerie absence of sound, and life. There was no wind rushing through the strangely cool canyon, no croak, or growl, or shriek of any nearby creatures, not even the hum of a single insect. On an already desolate planet, he was certain this was the most desolate place he had ever visited. The absence of everything was unnatural. It felt somehow more empty than space.

He shivered again as they stepped up to the gate.

In the center was a circular hatch the size of a small plate. The metallic flap was ajar, and from it hung the limp, telescopic limb of a dismantled gatekeeper droid. The limb ended abruptly halfway down, where severed wires were splayed at various lengths and angles

Silvier looked at Pace, confusion on his face. Pace pretended not to notice, and pulled a short, cylindrical welding tool from his belt. He thrust the pointed end into the hatch, behind the base of the scavenged droid's limb, and pressed a button on the welder. It sparked and hissed as he held it there, waiting, until eventually the limb jerked, and then slid down to clang onto the rocky floor.

He replaced the tool into its belt pouch and peered in behind the open flap, into the mess of tangled, detached wires. After a minute, he started picking pairs of wires at random and touching the frayed and exposed ends together, careful only to touch the insulated coverings on them. Finally, on the eleventh combination, they sparked, and Pace jumped backwards. A great metallic rumble shook the ground beneath them, and the doors began to creak and groan apart with agonising slowness.

He looked at Silvier and grinned smugly, but the grin quickly dissipated.

Pace almost retched the instant the gate's massive interlocking teeth peeled away from each other, and they were hit by a wall of moist, warm, mouldy air. Out of his left eye, he saw Silvier gag several times, alleviating any embarrassment he might have felt himself. Looking down, Pace could see a carpet of red vines, snaking and weaving, climbing up the walls and around to cover even the ceiling. Every surface in the passageway was covered.

The sheer abundance of life, compared to the desolation outside created a surreal contrast. Pace felt as though they were standing at the threshold of a portal connecting two entirely different worlds.

It was unnaturally fecund. The thick, tangled, jungle vines had no place on Tatooine - a planet where water was so sparse that organisations like Kir-T.O. could make a living importing, and selling it to the inhabitants.

No, there was something definitely, and abominably _wrong_ about the alien ecosystem sprawling in front of them.

Pace and Silvier covered their mouths from the stench and shared a brief, uncertain look. Then, together, they leaned into the darkness and stepped inside.

Under their feet, the vines scrunched, the thinnest of them splitting under their weight, spurting red and yellow liquid across their tangled brethren. Making their way down the corridor, Pace had the feeling that the entire inside of the palace was entwined in the foul-odoured vines, and he held back another, sudden gagging reflex at the mental image.

He turned to Silvier, "Alright, kid. Tell me what we're looking for, so we can grab it and get out of this jungle."

Still covering his mouth, Silvier looked at Pace. He looked completely bewildered. Through his fingers he mumbled, "I'm not really sure. I mean, I need some sort of records, or data, or something, but..." Pace threw his best unimpressed face at the kid, which prompted Silvier to take his hand from his mouth and rush on, "I don't… I… Something's not right."

"Was it the smell that gave it away?" Pace asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow.

"No, not just that. I mean, what... Where is everyone?"

Pace felt the cold finger of apprehension settle in his stomach, and he cupped his forehead between his fingers, "Silver, please tell me you know where we actually are. You know about the Ignus Crew, right?"

"Of course I know about the Ignus Crew, that's who I was looking for."

Pace's apprehension was replaced by the realisation of his idiocy, and he laughed aloud at himself, and at Silvier. Stupidly, he had assumed that Silvier's knowledge of Tatooine was equal to his own. At the very least, given Silvier's determination to bring Pace here, he had taken it as fact that Silvier knew about _Rish'iki tw'umbazaloo._

"He doesn't know." Bee said, his voice mirroring Pace's disbelief.

"Have you ever heard of the Tomb of the Hutts?" Pace asked Silvier.

"No. What is it?"

Pace took a deep breath, "You're standing in it."

Silvier spun to face Pace, his expression a mix of alarm and puzzlement, "I don't understand. What happened here?"

"The Ignus Crew is gone, Silver. Vanished." Silvier shook his head slowly, as if to deny it, but Pace continued, "The Hutts that ran it disappeared. All of them, and a fair few of their higher level associates with them, too."

The shock on Silvier's face almost evoked some small feeling of sympathy in Pace.

"Overnight," He continued dramatically, "They just up and vanished. Until that point, they were the most successful group to take up shop here since Jabba died. A few tried in the days and months afterwards, but none of them lasted. Most of them haven't been seen since, either."

Silvier just blinked.

"Nowadays, everyone stays away. They think there's some kind of revenge curse on it, placed by the B'omarr monks - who Jabba stole the palace from in the first place," Pace finished.

Silvier said nothing, but closed his eyes for a few moments. When he opened them he gave Pace an intensely puzzled look. The same look he had given him in the cantina as Pace was about to walk away. Pace had hidden his reaction then, and did the same now. But he had seen the look, and he had a bad feeling he knew what it meant.

They continued on in silence.

They passed a few archways adjoining the main corridor, all open. In most cases the doors had been twisted apart from their hinges by the ceaseless strength of the growing vines. Through one corridor, Pace saw the wreck of an old droid with deep, haunting eyes, slumped over on its side. It had an array of sharp instruments protruding from the end of a long spindly arm, dangling by its sides. Pace had a feeling it was the kind of droid that was best left shut down.

Soon they came around a sharp curve which ended with a right turn down a set of steps. Navigating the overgrown vines covering the steps was tricky, and despite his disgust, Pace found himself more than once having to use nearby vines on the walls to hold his balance.

When he finally managed to get to the bottom of the steps, they rounded another corner and stepped into a large open chamber.

Corridors ran off the main chamber in all directions, some leading to smaller antechambers, some cutting off abruptly and twisting in other directions. In one of the secondary chambers, Pace saw a raised platform set in the corner, broken chairs and tables strewn around it. Off center in the main chamber was an alcove, inset with a large square block in the center, tufts of swallowed up cushions peeking up between the thick red vines.

In the center of the room, in the floor, was a square hole, completely overtaken by vines. Only a few finger sized gaps remained between the tightly packed vines, jammed in the opening like they had fought amongst themselves for space. In fact, Pace realised, it almost looked as though the vines were growing from inside the pit.

Pace breathed deeply. He knew what this was. This was where Jabba, many years ago, had kept his pet Rancor chained up.

"Pace," Bee startled him, "I think I may have picked up some traces of electronic signals, about twenty or so metres further up, the opposite way you came in. It looks like a clump of tiny, dormant energy signals. Could be data chips. At any rate, it's the only thing I'm picking up. Inside the palace, at least."

Pace punched a quick message back into his console. What Bee had left unsaid was that he had picked something up _outside_ of the Palace.

"What's that thing?" Silvier asked, watching him tap on the console.

"It's, um… a signal locator. C'mon, I think I might know where to-" Pace stopped, his heart pounding suddenly.

"I heard it too," Silvier whispered.

Voices were coming from behind them down the main corridor.

"' _Spit_ ," Pace said under his breath, "Quick, this way."

He didn't wait to check if Silvier followed. He shot off to the other side of the main palace chamber, darting irreverently around the re-occupied rancor pit. He picked the left of two smaller corridors in the opposite wall and ran down it. After a few metres, the corridor split off again and he hesitated.

"Paccren Avis!" Boomed a deep voice from the corridor on the right, "We know it's you!"

He darted left again.

"Wait," Silvier called after him, "Are they from the Cantina? What were they yelling? Who were they calling for?" He asked between heaving breaths.

"Actually Silver, no, they're not from the cantina," Pace grunted as he ducked beneath a particularly audacious vine hanging from the ceiling.

"Pace," Bee called, "Just to your right, the signals are there."

Pace stopped, Silvier nearly crashing into him from behind, and darted through an archway into a small room to his right. He stumbled over an iron panel - the door, he realised belatedly - into a room filled with electronic equipment and consoles. Most of it was covered in knotted vines, inaccessible.

Bringing his console up, Pace tapped on it, impressing upon Bee that his new priority should be finding them another way out of the palace.

"I'm trying to consolidate the hundreds of different palace schematics in my database now, but it's hard to verify any of it. If a droid had ever made a copy, I'd probably have you out already."

Pace hit three of the buttons firmly.

"Fine, fine. By the way," Bee added, "Did I just hear Commander Hiers?"

Pace took one look around the room, then grabbed Silvier and all but slammed him against the wall behind the doorway. He held a finger up to his lips to signal silence, and backed up next to Silvier.

They waited.

"Paccren!" Came a voice from just outside the room, "We know you're in there."

Beside him, Silvier slowly pulled a small blaster from inside his leather jerkin, turning towards the archway.

"Try not to use that thing if you can help it," Pace told the young man quietly, who gave him a questioning frown.

"Paccren. Come quietly, and no one has to get hurt."

Silvier's frown deepened, "Why are they calling you that?" He whispered.

Pace ignored him. "It's a bit late for that, isn't it, Hiers?"

There was a pause.

"Hilarious, Avis." Hiers did not sound impressed.

"Look, Hiers," Pace spoke as humbly as he could manage, "I'm sorry. Really, I am. I told you, you shouldn't have been there." Pace waited but there was no response. "It wasn't like you thought it was."

"Not buying it, Avis," Hiers stepped into the doorway, blaster first.

Silvier moved to raise his own blaster, but Pace grabbed his arm and shook his head at the boy's confused glare. Hearing the movement, Hiers spun on his heel to point his blaster in their direction.

Carefully, Pace stepped out from the wall as three men sidled in through the doorway behind Hiers, fanning out around their Commander, each holding a blaster. Still holding Silvier's blaster arm, Pace raised his free hand in surrender. "Hiers," He said, "I was only after Lurderkrit, I swear. You _weren't_ meant to be there."

Hiers stepped forward and a sliver of light piercing through the ceiling lit the older man's face for a half second. Pace saw melted skin on the left side which hadn't healed properly, and he winced. A pang of guilt struck him, and he tried to push it away. It wasn't his fault. Hiers had simply gotten caught in the trap Pace had set for Lurderkrit, his _intended_ target. Hiers wasn't meant to be there, and there was no way Pace could have known the Commander had followed him.

Next to Pace, Silvier lowered his blaster and tried to step away from the wall, "Look I don't know-"

"Shut it, kid!" Hiers pointed the blaster at Silvier, cutting his protest short, then quickly aimed it at Pace again, "As for you, Avis, I would suggest you save your explanations. I got off easy compared to what you did to my men. Tell me, what do you think the Rebellion will do with a First Order spy, after I tell them you killed two of our agents in cold blood?"

Silvier shot a furious glance at Pace but before he could say anything Pace quickly launched into a defence, "No, Heirs, it wasn't like that. Just let me explain, please. I don't work for the First Ord-"

One of the men behind Hiers shot the ground in front of Pace and Silvier, and the room went silent. Pace met the man's eyes, determined not to be cowed. The man's jaw was clenched, and his blaster arm was visibly shaking.

Hiers stepped forward, his blaster still levelled at them. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

A squelching sound had suddenly filled the small room. It surrounded them, and grew in volume rapidly. All the men in the room exchanged glances, each looking for an explanation from another. Until the walls and floors started undulating.

Hiers and his men looked down. Pace looked at Silvier. Silvier was still scowling at him.

Then one of Hiers' men screamed, the man who had shot his blaster. One of the vines had wrapped itself around his leg, and was pulling him to the floor. The rest of the room watched in stunned horror for a heartbeat, before Hier's men leapt to his rescue.

Then, for the second time that day, Pace realised he'd made an assumption that in hindsight was so obviously wrong, he was prompted to start questioning his own judgement. This time, however, his error was far more likely to prove fatal. What he had assumed this whole time were thick, strangely coloured vines, were actually tentacles.

Every surface of the palace was covered with a thick blanket of extremely long tentacles. And whatever they belonged to had just been awoken by the blaster shot.

As Hiers and his men scrambled to free their comrade, the tentacles started writhing toward Pace and Silvier, too.

Pace grabbed Silvier's arm to drag him towards the door, past Hiers' struggling entourage. Before he got to the door, Silvier yanked his arm back, and he spun. Following Silvier's downward gaze, Pace saw a tentacle wrapping around the youth's ankle.

He yanked the welding tool out of its pouch again and leaned over to press the end against the encroaching limb. A tiny jet of flame shot out from the tip, puncturing a hole and cauterising the flesh of the tentacle, which retracted instantly.

"Now come on!" Pace yelled at Silvier, who followed him to the doorway.

"Avis!" Hiers called out. Pace stopped and turned. The man who had first shot his blaster was buried in a knot of tentacles. His companions were firing their blasters at the ever-increasing tangle, but the more they shot, the faster they were enveloped.

Hiers was looking at him, pulling at the snake-like appendages coiling around his chest. Pace stared Hiers in the eyes. He could see the plea for help there, just as he could see the pride which kept the man from asking outright.

Pace looked down at the welding tool in his hand.

"Pace!" Silvier said, urgently.

Clutching the tool firmly, Pace leapt towards the closest of Hiers' struggling men and thrust it at the throng of tentacles around the floor. The custom-made tool cut through the limbs in seconds, and in a few quick strokes, he had freed the man enough for him to twist his body around and push himself away. He looked at Pace with puzzled eyes.

"Th… thank you," He stuttered.

Pace move to Hiers next, and repeated the process, severing the tentacles where they curled around him on the floor. Flinging the last of the dismembered limbs from himself, Hiers stood up and looked at Pace.

Pace threw the welder into the air and spun it, end over end, and caught it by the super-cooled tip, with the handle pointed at Hiers. Hiers looked down at it, frowning, then looked back up to Pace.

Pace held his gaze. Trying not to sound bitter, he said, "I told you, you were never meant to be in the room. This makes us even."

"Pace!" Silvier urged him again.

Hier's slowly, cautiously took the welder from Pace's hand.

Then something strange happened. Something eerily beyond Pace's immediate comprehension.

One second he had been standing in front of Hiers, and in the next he was hurtling backwards across the room. He could see Hiers and Silvier reaching out to him, but he was moving away from them.

There was a sudden and intense pain in his side, and he found himself robbed of air.

He had been flung, it became clear later. Something had flung him into the air, with significant force.

Pace remembered one last image of the men in the room, the minute details seared into his mind forever. Hiers and his men staring dumbly, watching him, and Silvier yelling wordlessly, jaw wide open, his outstretched hand reaching toward Pace.

Then he crashed into something hard and metal, and his back wrenched. He bounced off the object onto the ground, rolling onto his belly. Dozens of smaller metal objects showered him, cascading over his back and head, and scattering on the floor around him.

He tried to push himself up, but his arms buckled beneath him.

He couldn't breathe, his lungs burned.

He tried to lift his head, but it didn't respond quite in the way he intended, and instead he felt himself swaying uncontrollably. His vision was blurring, and he felt dizzy. The world was spinning, images coming to him in erratic waves, dotted with stars of red and blue.

Looking around he saw a shadow over him. Then the shadow loomed closer. He felt himself being yanked by the underarms.

It hurt, and he wanted to tell the shadowy figure to stop But all he could do was mumble. And it didn't stop. Instead, he felt his weight lifting. He could feel himself rising, his vision swaying, like he was being rocked. He felt nauseous. And he still _couldn't_ _breathe._

Then suddenly he was flopped over, and he felt his weight pressing on his belly. Then he was moving.

Something hurt in his head. A pain, radiating, pulsing.

He felt something in his chest. Something sharp, familiar. In his lungs. It was the cold, piercing relief of air, he realised. He was breathing again, barely. He swallowed one shallow breath after another, then another, and another, until the burning in his lungs began to subside. It took several more gasping breaths until he found a steady rhythm.

In, out. In, out.

He looked up, his vision clearing slowly.

The walls were flashing by. And… they were _creeping_.

He was being jolted irregularly - bouncing, he decided. He was on someone's shoulder, being carried. There was light. He could see a light.

Pace blinked. Then he blinked again. "Silver," he said, understanding, "Put me down."

"Pace... no. Not… until we're out… of the palace," Silvier's voice was punctuated by his deep, rasping breaths.

Pace didn't have enough of his own breath yet to argue, and he took the time to regather his senses.

He looked around.

They were in a corridor. The main corridor. Silvier was taking them back out to the main entrance. But how was he carrying Pace? He wasn't a weak-looking kid, but he was young - no more than seventeen perhaps. To carry a grown man and run on such unsteady ground...

The youth had a hidden strength.

He couldn't decide if he was grateful for it in that moment, though. Silvier's shoulder was jutting into his stomach, and the constant bouncing, together with the pounding in his head, was making him feel nauseous. He felt sure he was going to vomit.

As the front gates came into view, a great, metallic creak shook the palace, and Pace saw the light between them start to narrow.

Somehow, whatever now ruled the Tomb of the Hutts was pulling the gates together.

"Silvier!"

"I… can… see it," He grunted back.

"Drop me. You'll never make it," Pace said.

"Are you sure you-"

"DO IT!"

Silvier responded to the command impressively quick. He leaned right, and Pace rolled off his shoulder onto his feet.

Pace stumbled for a moment, his legs like jelly under him, before he righted himself. Then he looked at Silvier. "GO," he yelled, and ran himself, swaying from left to right as he regained his balance.

He skipped and jumped between the gaps in the living, moving floor, stumbling several times as he miscalculated, and as stray tentacles whipped across his face and chest.

They reached the gate in time for Silvier, then Pace to jump through before it shut. Pace had to turn on his side to make the narrowing gap, and the rusty iron caught his jump suit as he slid between two of the massive teeth. It tore the fabric and left a gash across his chest.

He hopped on his front foot twice as he cleared the gates, unable to counteract the momentum, then stumbled to the ground, and collapsed to his knees panting beside Silvier.

The gates shut behind them with a deep, thunderous clang.

Pace closed his eyes, and breathed out heavily.

"PACCREN AVIS!" A voice screeched ahead.

Exhausted, Pace held his head down as long as he thought he could get away with, catching his breath.

"AVIS!"

He looked up. Silvier's speeder was hovering above the road ahead where they left it. Except it wasn't empty.

Three men stood in the speeder smirking, holding blasters aimed at Pace and Silvier. In front of the speeder stood a woman wearing tan pants and a white singlet, with long flowing black hair. She held her own blaster by her side with one hand, her empty hand pressed against her hip. She was glowering at Pace.

To the speeder's left stood an AT-ST, its guns also trained at Pace and Silvier.

"More of Hiers' men?" Silvier asked, hoarsely, giving Pace a desperate look.

Pace turned to face Silvier, and gave him an apologetic grin, "Unfortunately not,"

"What?" Silvier growled at him.

"Remember I said I didn't make a lot of friends?" Pace replied, then leant towards his wrist console, "Bee, it's Lurderkrit's people. Is the tractor beam still ready?"

"Yes," Bee replied, his voice an unlikely salve for Pace's exhaustion, "And would you like to explain what the party was all about in there?"

"Who are you talking to?" Silvier asked, looking at him.

"YOU'RE FINISHED, AVIS!" The woman shouted, marching towards them.

"Well, now would be a great time to use it," Pace said to Bee.

"Right," came the response.

Three tiny blue lights, so small only Pace, watching for them, would have seen them, came to life on the back half of the speeder, and without warning it launched itself backwards at the AT-ST.

No one had time to react.

The men inside the speeder were caught by the chairs and front visor, and dragged along at a considerable speed towards the AT-ST. The speeder closed the distance in a half second, and crashed into the cube shaped cabin of the walker.

The metal crumpled with the impact. The engines ignited, and exploded.

The shockwave nearly knocked Pace back, and he instinctively brought his arms up to shield his eyes from the blast. A wave of intense heat crashed over him, sucking air from his lungs, and setting his skin tingling.

He waited for the rumbles to die down, before he lifted his arm fractionally to peek at the aftermath.

There was fire everywhere. Tiny pieces of smoking metal debris rained down on the sand around them. The legs of the walker were the only recognisable thing in the mess of twisted scraps strewn across the desert, standing ruined amidst the red orange glow of flames. Kneeling between them and the wrecked AT-ST was the dark haired woman, her clothes tattered and singed.

Bruised, battered, drained, Pace watched. He was helpless as the woman roared bestially, and raised her blaster at him.

"NO!" Silvier cried out beside him, and his hand shot out, trembling fingers curved in a twisted grasp.

She fired.

Pace jerked his arm down again to bury his face in his elbow. A split second before the bolt hit him.

Fire shot through his arm. Pain reverberated down into his body in a thousand waves. His arm turned to lead. Burning, melting lead. He spasmed all over for a second, two, three, as blackness crept over him.

The last thing he remembered was a faint buzzing sensation in his ear.

Then, as the agony overwhelmed him, he slipped into the blackness.


	7. Grenade Squadron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE (Feb/24/'18)
> 
> I worked really hard to bring this surprise for you guys. I appreciate the kudos.
> 
> This time I'm not gonna talk in here too much, but instead just let the chapters speak for themselves. I'll say I'm the most excited and anxious to release these chapters as I have been about any so far. I think they're actually my best work to date. But I'm happy for you guys to offer your opinions on that.
> 
> So here they are.TWO CHAPTERS!

_Your training goes well, young one, and you have helped me so much already._

_We can achieve great things together._

_Calayis was too narrow minded to ever amount to anything other than what was already in his short, pathetic reach._

_More narrow minded than you or me._

_He was so satisfied with his revenge, once. It sated him for so long, young one._

_Bah! He killed the people who were with him on Kreytak, that's all._

_Such a small consequence._

_The Jedi deserved worse, far worse. What Calayis gave them was nothing short of mercy._

_But we can fix that. We WILL fix it._

_I can feel it already._

_Yes, you have done much, my young apprentice._

_You have done very well._

_But we need more._

* * *

Yaela checked again to reassure herself that her blaster was firmly tucked into the holster at her side, and stepped out of her quarters into the ship's lounge. Reethers stood from the couch. A little too quickly, Yaela thought, as she side-stepped through the hatch.

"Are you sure you want to meet them, Yaela?" He asked, and Yaela suspected the apprehension in his voice came more from concern for his own peace of mind, than it did for her well being.

She felt for the Cadet. It was not his fault that she had to visit Mak'Leth, not really. He merely suffered from the malady of the young and inexperienced to let their budding thoughts too often become their spoken words. It was clear now that he regretted the mention of Pace again in the ship four days ago. But what was said was said, and now Yaela had little choice but to follow the thread to its end. If Pace had somehow survived those many years back, when he shouldn't have, she had to know.

"Yes, I'm sure," Yaela said firmly, then comforted Reethers with, "But don't worry, I won't cause any trouble." She caught Reethers' nervous glance to the SE-14X blaster pistol hanging from her belt, and gave him a shrug, "Alright, I won't _start_ any trouble."

Reethers swallowed, "Why do you want to talk to them at all, anyway? What do you want with Pace?"

"It's a long story, kid, and I don't think you'd enjoy hearing it," Yaela said, sidestepping his questions, and walking to the other end of the lounge where the ship's entry ramp was sealed shut. "And you don't have to stay, if you don't want. Just help me get to Masst Mingo's and I'll be fine from there."

Reether's followed her, but didn't reply, which meant he was actually considering it. _Good,_ she thought, _it will be a lot easier to find out what I need to, if I'm not trying to tiptoe around him_.

The offer still hanging in the air between them, Yaela called to the cockpit, down the passageway, "Alright Lieutenant, we're ready."

By way of a response, Lieutenant Dand, who Yaela could see in his pilot's chair, reached to the column of buttons above him and pulled on a red lever. The ramp in front of them yawned open. As the hydraulics hissed, and the metal creaked apart, the ship was filled with a cool and moist influx of night air. Yaela breathed it in heavily through her mouth. It tasted like city air, alright - a subtle cocktail of greasy food, sweat, alcohol, and burnt engine fuel. The air inside the _Rook_ was instantly assimilated, and Yaela saw the Cadet standing next to her scrunch his nose against the aroma.

As the ramp kissed the landing pad floor and locked into place, Yaela stepped down and surveyed Leth'LoBar city. It was modest. Not like the cities she remembered from Hosnian Prime - the once thriving capital of the New Republic, but certainly more lively than the optimistically-labeled 'town' of Angora from where she had just come.

Buildings stretched upward around the landing pad, tall enough, and packed together tightly enough, that she couldn't see the horizon in any direction. People of myriad species littered the streets, walking, slithering, or in some cases stumbling from building to building. A pair of Gran were slumped on the main strip, their backs pressed against short, durasteel retaining walls that circled a barely trickling fountain. Each of their three protruding eyes were closed. Asleep, Yaela hoped.

Multicoloured lights shone from every building, flashing signs hanging above the doors of most, in languages Yaela was yet to master. From what she could translate, they were mostly advertising the same three things; alcohol, dancers, and gambling in one form or another.

Every now and then, an air-speeder flew by overhead, the constant whir of engines gradually diving in pitch as each one passed over the _Rook_ 's landing pad and disappeared behind the skyline.

The city was pretty close to Reethers' description, but not as seedy as Yaela was expecting. Judging by the lack of settlement around the planet that Yaela had been able to see when they lowered through the atmosphere, she hadn't expected the capital to be very well developed.

And from the way Reethers carried on, she had gotten the impression that Leth'LoBar was every bit a nest for the scum and crooks of the galaxy as was the Mos Eisley spaceport on Tatooine. Now she realised it was the young Cadet's inexperience that coloured his impression. He had never been anywhere disreputable enough to understand that this was practically a resort by the galaxy's current standards.

Still, she kept herself alert as she stepped off the _Rook'_ s gangplank.

"Alright Reethers, lead the way," she said, throwing him a pleasant smile, a deliberate and calculated counterpoint to his discomfort.

Reethers managed a quick, polite smile back, then marched away unspeaking. Yaela grinned. His lack of reply was bordering on rudeness, and she was impressed at the kid's spunk, even if it did come off a little petulant.

The comlink buzzed in Yaela's pocket, and she fished it out, then pressed the switch to activate it. Lieutenant Dand's voice came through, "Take care of the Cadet, please, Ma'am. He's young, but he's smarter than he acts." He paused for a moment, "He's one of the good ones."

"Will do, Lieutenant," Yaela promised as she stepped off the end of the ramp, skipping her first few steps through the milling crowd to catch up to Reethers. "We're clear now, you can head back to the outskirts."

"Alright," came the reply, and the ship's hydraulics hissed again as the ramp swung back up somewhere behind her, "Just buzz me when you're done, and I'll come pick you up again."

"Thanks, Lieutenant." Yaela waited a few seconds in case Dand had anything else to add, but the comlink remained static as the _Rook_ 's repulsor-lift thrusters fired up again and the ship rose into the air, then took off into the black night sky. She switched the comlink off and returned it to her vest pocket, then marched after Reethers, who hadn't bothered to check if Yaela was keeping up.

As she dashed down the street, side-stepping a couple who had just staggered out of a rather filthy looking establishment, she caught Reethers before he turned down an alleyway to the left. A quick skip-jump brought her side to side with the young Cadet, and they walked in silence between the grey, neon-light studded buildings.

A hundred meters or so up, Reethers took a right and led Yaela down an even darker, more narrow alleyway, and after a few steps stopped and turned to face one of the buildings to their right. There was nothing remarkable about it, Yaela thought. It was just like all the other seedy bars she had seen so far on the main strip - complete with blaster scars scattered up along the walls, patchwork armoured door, and flashing lights hanging from just below the edge of the roof. Apparently this bar was a drinking only establishment, in contrast to the bulk of bars, cantinas, and casinos they had passed on the way. As if to make amends for the lack of entertainment, however, a sign dangling in the right corner proudly claimed the proprietor, Mingo, offered the finest of all ales available on Mak'Leth. Yaela eyed it with suspicion. She was sure she had seen almost the exact same sign hanging at the bar a few buildings back, only with a different Proprietor's name.

A single light was embedded in the wall itself, just above the door. It read in basic: "Masst Mingo's".

Reethers gave Yaela one last, mildly contemptuous look before stepping onto the small stoop before the door, and rapping on the plated door's surface three times. After a short pause, the door swung open, and a human male stood there holding a blaster. He was tall, dark, and looking about ready to shoot whoever had knocked at the door, as well as anyone he might have incidentally spotted in the street. A large cigarra hung from his huge lips, smoking faintly. He looked at Reethers, then at Yaela, and one of his oversized eyebrows lifted.

"Reethers," the huge man growled, looking back to the Cadet, "Been a while. And you brought a friend, I see."

Yaela sensed the tension in Reethers, and she was sure the man in the door could feel it too. In the bar behind him, she could see the faint glow of ambient lighting, and hear the murmur of several typical bar conversations competing in volume. There was music playing somewhere in the background, but it was unfamiliar to her, or too low to be able to distinguish any individual notes through the intermittent, and raucous laughter.

"Come on in," the tall man invited, "The boys will be glad to see you." And with that, he stepped to the side and swung the door open to its fullest.

Yaela waited for Reethers to step through before following him into the bar. The scent of cigarra smoke was thick and cloying. A haze hovered over the tables - near imperceptible, but for the odd wisp that whorled in the currents created by the open door.

Reethers nodded thanks to the doorman, who shut the door behind them as they stepped through, then carried on into the bar, walking around a thick metal pillar before sliding between a pair of tables. Yaela noted that he was being careful not to disturb the patrons on either side as he slipped between their chairs. He did so with what looked like a practiced ease, and Yaela couldn't help wondering at that. Evidently, he had some experience in navigating this particular bar.

She wouldn't have expected it to be quite Reether's style, a place like this, but he was clearly familiar with it. What reason a Rebellion Cadet could have for visiting a place like this, she couldn't guess. All soldiers were allocated leave every once in a while, sure, but most spent their time in the Rebellion's own subsidised cantinas on Hofmet. Why would Reethers and Dand spend four or more days flying all the way out here just for their down time? No, it had to be more than just relaxation. She made a mental note to interrogate Reethers about it sometime.

Letting her train of thought slide away for now, she followed Reethers around several tables, before he stopped to look around.

"Reethers!" A cheerful voice cut through the din.

Reethers' head spun, following the sound, and Yaela looked to where his gaze settled. Sitting around a low circular table were five men, all wearing gray flight suits, nursing large glasses of what Yaela assumed was Mingo's supposedly unrivalled ale. One, a large human, was gesturing to Reethers with an upraised hand. He sported curly dark hair that curved around his face to form a generous beard. Reethers didn't make a response, but trudged over to the table casually. Yaela followed him again, noting the hidden stiffness in the Cadet's gait.

As they approached the table, the men all took their near-empty glasses and raised them off the table's surface in a brief salute to the Cadet. The large, bearded fellow pushed his chair back and rose to greet Reethers, clapping him on the back as he did so, "Cadet! Where in the belly of Kessel have you been?" His voice was smoothly accented, rich with the confidence accustomed to leadership, "We've missed you. What have you got for us this time?" The man looked behind him to Yaela, and tilted his head, "Where's Dand?"

"Not that the Twi'Lek girl isn't a whole lot better to look at," a shorter man on the opposite side of the table jabbed in a nasally voice, earning a chuckle from his comrades.

Yaela flashed him a steely look, eyes narrowed, her Lekku pressed against her back. The short, sandy-haired man smiled back at her insolently. It took all Yaela had not to snarl at him. Something in that smile made her feel diminished, servile. She restrained herself, and instead turned her attention back to the bearded man.

"Dand's on the ship, Pyes," Reethers explained nervously. He tossed a sideways look to Yaela "This isn't a… traditional visit. My friend here wanted to meet you."

"Well," the man Reethers called Pyes looked to Yaela again, "I'm not averse to breaking tradition every once in a while. Especially when there's a worthwhile reason," his mouth stretched wide into a smile full of charm, revealing a line of white, perfectly aligned teeth. Then his gaze flickered momentarily to Yaela's holstered blaster. He didn't say anything about it, whether out of tact or a lack of concern she wasn't sure, but when his eyes met Yaela's again, she could have sworn his smile somehow, impossibly, grew even wider.

Drawing out his eye contact, Pyes offered his seat to Yaela, and without waiting for a response from her, moved to the next table to slide two empty chairs back over to theirs, nodding politely to the pair of Aldereenians who chittered indignantly. He offered one to Reethers, who sat, and took the other himself.

Yaela quickly surveyed the other men at the table, as she sat. After Pyes, in order from his left, sat a pale Rodian, a darkly furred Defel, the sandy haired chauvinist, and finally, closest to her right was another human, who she realised, now that she was looking at him close up, was not a man at all, so much as a child. He appeared younger than any of the others by at least ten years. Younger even then Reethers, she reckoned. He was also the only one who didn't hold the soldier-like cockiness of his friends.

"Introductions, please, Reethers," Pyes said, waving a palm around the table as he looked to the Cadet, "Then we can order another round."

Reethers sighed, and in his eyes Yaela could see a kind of resignation. He looked reluctant as he gestured to her, "This is Yaelyat'kouarri, everyone. She's an official liaison and counselor for the Rebellion." In response, the group took up their glasses once again and nodded in a slightly more formal greeting.

"Please, call me Yaela," Yaela said, as diplomatically as she could, whilst still trying her best not to feel out of place in the dimly lit, liquor and cigarra scented building.

Reethers continued, sweeping his hand across the table, "And Yaela, this is Grenade Squadron."

Pyes nodded with an air of self-satisfaction. "I am Captain William Pyes, Grenade leader. My men call me Flash." He held his hand out across the table.

Yaela took his hand and shook it. "Flash?" She said, not quite containing her laughter, "Captain Flash? Sorry, but…"

"I know, I know," there was humor in Pyes' voice, a self-effacing modesty that belied his air of confidence. "No one ever calls me _'Captain_ Flash', though. Just Flash. And it's not as silly as it sounds. We lose men sometimes, you see, and we have to reshuffle everyone once in a while. It's easier in combat when we don't have to think about who is and isn't around you." He paused, and took a sip of his drink then, looking thoughtful. Then he looked at Yaela with one eye opened wider than the other, "You ever been in a dogfight, Yaela? As a combat pilot, I mean."

She shook her head, vaguely aware that everyone's attention at the table was directed at her.

"It gets messy. You can't see anyone you're talking to. If you're lucky, you get used to asking for what you need, from whoever can give it to you. When we have to replace someone in our squadron, we replace the role, not the person," the men at the table nodded along to Pyes' words.

Pyes' hands came up as he spoke, imitating the outline of a ship, and gesturing animatedly, "Imagine you're cockpit deep in a trench run against a planetary shield generator, and you've got four or five uglies on your tail, all burning through their fuel trying to shoot you out of the sky. If you have to correct yourself when you call out for the wrong wingman…" His hands ceased waving about in imagined flight patterns, and he dropped them to rest on the table. "Well, you may as well call out for your great grandmother while you're at it, so she knows you're coming. A name that never changes makes things easier."

The table waited for Yaela's response. She had to admit, it made a kind of sense.

"I can see the sense in that," she conceded to Pyes. "And it's quicker to say than Grenade Leader. I take it you all have similar callsigns?"

"Well well, not so stupid for a Twi'lek, is she?" The sandy haired man said.

Yaela shot him a faceful of disdain, the rings wrapped around her lekku jangling as they flicked up and down against her shoulders. The man put his hands up in defence, palms out.

"Hey… sorry," he said through a snigger, "I meant it as a compliment, Blue."

Yaela locked eyes with the man for a second. She could feel her lips pressing tighter together. The nickname he had just given her was an unmistakable reference to her skin, and as a diplomat, her patience for any kind of prejudice was something that already needed work. When that prejudice was directed at her own species…

"Anyway," Pyes picked up again, slightly louder than necessary, "This here is Antilon Brakk. We call him Bang. He's my wingman, and a better pilot than any of us here by a moon-span." He gestured to the Rodian sitting next to him, who nodded politely to Yaela, but remained silent. She nodded back.

Pyes gestured next to the Defel, "This is Ermourl, or Shell."

"We only picked _him_ up 'cause we wanted his ship," Sandy-hair jibed, drawing muffled laughter from the group. The Defel flashed his sharp teeth at the man, but turned back to Yaela quickly and purred, "Nice to meet you."

"And you," she replied.

"This is Cavin Atze, who you are already getting to know," Pyes continued, nodding to the sandy haired man.

"Call me Pin," he said. The smirk from earlier hadn't left his face, almost as if it was painted on indelibly.

"A pleasure," she said sarcastically.

"Pleasure?" Atze said, his eyes widening, so that the light played in them like fireworks, "I like the sound of that. It's about time we got some proper entertainment in this joint."

Yaela's grip on her chair tightened. She stared at Atze, refusing to look away from his leering smile.

"You're not exactly careful with your words, are you?" She said. "Tell me, do you always speak your mind so… indiscriminately? You, uh, compensating for something?" Yaela nodded overtly towards his waist, and then below, letting the men around the table follow her gaze, "Is that why they call you Pin?"

There was a ripple of muted laughter that made its way around the table.

The sandy haired troublemaker blushed, and the smirk on his face disappeared for a moment. But it quickly reappeared, looking even more impudent than before. Atze chuckled derisively, "You're one of them smart, fancy types, ain't ya? Well, you're welcome to come over here and find out for yourself, Blue," he patted his lap and winked at her.

Yaela shook her head in disgust. The man needed to be taken down a notch or two, and she couldn't help but imagine all the ways in which she could facilitate that. She abandoned them all, however, opening her mouth instead, to fling back another cutting remark.

"Now now, ladies and gentlemen," Pyes interrupted just in time, "Let's not allow things to become uncivilised."

Yaela tipped her head to the Captain in deferral, and was happy to drop the contest there. But Atze, in spite of his call sign, clearly did _not_ know when to put the pin back in it.

"On the contrary, Captain, what could be more civilised than a good old fashioned Twi'lek lap dance?" He crooned.

"Pin," the Captain warned, voice low.

Reethers shuffled very loudly in the seat next to Yaela. Yaela herself could feel her blood starting to boil. Teeth clenched, she became acutely aware of the space between her hand, gripping the arm of her chair, and the blaster at her side.

Atze ignored his Captain's warning, "Come on, sweetheart, don't be shy. You know how to dance, don't you? That's what you Twi'leks are bred for after all, isn't it?"

_That_ was the breaking point for Yaela. Atze was not going to shut up unless she made it happen.

Captain Pyes pointed a finger sharply at Atze, about to silence the man once again, but he stopped as Yaela stood up. Her chair scraped across the floor loudly as she kicked it out from behind her.

"Yaela…" Reethers pleaded.

The men around the table watched silently as she walked languidly around their chairs until she reached Atze. She exaggerated her steps as she circled around them, and the sway of her hips - just as she had been taught as a child. She let muscle memory take over for that brief moment. Walking, for any lustful man who cared to notice, just as a traditional Twi'Lek dancer would do - in a manner that was, by design, difficult to look away from.

She felt many eyes around the bar settling on her slender, defined hips, and her sleek, but powerful thighs. She knew when she was being looked at. She was trained to know.

"Well, it is very nice to meet you, up close," Atze said as Yaela approached. She had the distinct feeling that the man was trying not to chuckle at his own words. "Is the music loud enough for you, or shall I ask the barkeep to-"

He never got to finish. Yaela, standing to the seated man's left, swept her foot across and into the front leg of Atze's chair. She pulled her leg up at the last second, and the leg of the chair with it. Atze and the chair were flipped backwards in a blur, and his head hit the floor underneath him with a resounding thud.

He recovered quickly, and rolled sideways onto his knees. He pushed himself up, lunging towards Yaela and swinging his fist towards her face. Yaela was ready for him. She already had her knee halfway up by the time he was on his feet. As she leant around his punch to the left, she slammed her upraised knee into his stomach, letting the momentum of his own swing carry his weight into the blow. He buckled over, the air in his lungs expelled with a brief, " _Whooph"_.

Yaela took a broad step backwards, twisting as she pulled her knee in towards her body, then thrust her booted foot out at the winded man. She kicked, or rather pushed him, and he went down again, rolling onto his back and gasping for air.

His squad mates all scrambled in their seats and began fumbling for their weapons.

But they had come to the bar for leisure, that night. They had been drinking, and they hadn't expected trouble. They were relaxed, off guard. Slow.

Yaela, on the other hand, had been prepared for trouble from the moment she left the ship. She dropped her knee onto Atze, pinning him with her weight, and in the same motion ripped her blaster out of its quick-release, pointing it at the man's head. She looked up, and the men, too slow in reaching for their own blasters, stopped and brought their hands slowly back up above the edge of the table. Reethers stared on in horror, the colour drained from his face. Pyes hadn't moved at all, strangely.

No one said anything, waiting to let Yaela make the next move.

She took a deep breath, looking to each of the men, and finally settling her eyes on the Captain. "So, what is everyone drinking?" She asked conversationally.

"Ale," Pyes replied, sounding amused. "Mingo's ale. It's the only thing worth drinking here."

Raising her voice, Yaela called across the bar, "Barman, a round of Mingo's ale for the table please!" She could feel the eyes of the other patrons pointed at her.

Pyes shook his head and chuckled.

Yaela smiled at the bewildered men seated around her, "My shout."

Underneath her, Atze coughed several times before Yaela heard him finally taking shallow breaths. Yaela could feel the tension of the moment draining away in the collective sigh from the men around her, as they realised their squad mate would be ok. His pride might never be the same perhaps, but physically at least, he wasn't permanently damaged.

Casually as she could, she stood up. She held the blaster pointed at Atze for a few more seconds, and then slowly holstered it. She fought the adrenaline still flushing from her veins as she stepped carefully around the table again, trying her best to appear composed, and lowered herself gracefully back into her seat.

No one said anything as Atze pulled himself to his feet and turned to glare at Yaela across the table. She could see his jaw muscles working, grinding his teeth. Without taking his eyes from hers, he reached down to pick up his chair and flip it upright again. He flopped into it and slid himself back into the circle of men.

Amazingly, no snarky comment was forthcoming from the beaten man.

The men of Grenade Squadron looked to their comrade with poorly hidden smirks.

Yaela smiled across the table at Atze, and winked. "Well, Pin, how did you like your dance?"

The men erupted into laughter, Brakk and Ermourl clapping their hands together in applause.

Atze curled his lips up in a vicious mock smile, but remained speechless.

Yaela looked left at Reethers, who was staring daggers at her. She shrugged back.

"I have to be honest gentlemen," Yaela steered the conversation, "I've never heard of Grenade Squadron." She cast her eyes over the gang as the laughter subsided, "You're not an official combat division, are you?"

"Not exactly, no," Pyes admitted. He scratched at his beard, "Actually, not at all. A few of us were with the Resistance once. And we still fight for the same cause. Generally speaking, though, our methods, are a little too... _direct_ for the Rebellion."

Yaela laughed, "Direct, huh? If the Rebellion doesn't approve, then I imagine they must be very direct indeed."

Ermourl shrugged his shaggy, feline shoulders, "We get the job done."

"Oh? And what job exactly is it that you get done?" Yaela asked.

Pyes looked at Reethers for a split second, then back to Yaela. She almost missed it. Almost, but not quite. She mirrored the Captain's brief look at the Cadet. He was keeping his eyes down, evidently not wanting to be a part of the discussion. He had obviously chosen to stay, however, instead of taking up Yaela on her offer to return to the ship. So it was his own fault if the subject matter wandered into territory that was uncomfortable for him.

"We fight the good fight, of course," Pyes answered her question, "against the First Order. We take the missions that the Rebellion won't, or those they've abandoned. We do their dirty work for them." He looked at his wingman, Brakk, and they both grinned.

"I see. And where do these 'missions' come from? As far as I'm aware, there's no official record of the Rebellion distributing information on military targets or even zeta-classed missions to any task force outside of… "

She broke off, realising that Pyes was the only one still looking at her. Brakk, Ermourl, Atze, and Spark were all fixated on their empty glasses. Atze was tapping on the table with his fingernails, and Spark coughed awkwardly. Brakk's long yellow tongue ran across his pouty Rodian lips.

The air around the table had gone suddenly still, heavy with some unspoken truth. _What are they not saying?_

After a few seconds Yaela suddenly twigged. She looked at Reethers again, and she felt her eyes widen, seeing the young pilot in a new, and slightly darker light. Somehow his eyes had lowered even further towards the floor, cementing her newfound revelation in her mind. Belatedly, she now understood his reluctance to bring her here. It had nothing to do with Pace, as she had first thought, nothing at all.

"Reethers… You and Dand...?" Yaela began, hardly knowing what she was going to say. It explained why Reethers and Dand knew this place at all, not to mention Reethers familiarity with it. It also explained some of the strange reports Connix had often passed on to her about odd attacks on First Order facilities, and those of known sympathisers - targets which the Rebellion had considered attacking at one point or another, to the point of producing mission briefs, assigning troops, conducting cost analyses and so forth, but which were eventually classified as 'Zeta' missions, deemed too dangerous and not worth the rewards, or which posed unacceptable levels of risk to civilians.

Strange and alarming as they were, on more than one occasion, those reports had heralded good news for the Rebellion. The mysterious vigilantes had taken out several key strategic targets in the last few years. Targets which the Rebellion itself had decided to ignore, but targets which, having been destroyed nonetheless, had given them significant tactical advantage in later skirmishes.

Here she stood, sitting across from the table to the men who were responsible, after being escorted by one of the men who was supplying them with the information.

Yaela didn't know whether to shake their hands in that moment and thank Grenade Squadron, or pull out her blaster again and make an attempt to arrest them. As for Reethers...

The barman arrived with a tray, interrupting her thoughts. He spread seven mismatched glasses full of a dark-gold liquid out around the table, one in front of each man, and the last in front of Yaela.

"Thirty six credits," he mumbled.

She fished through her hide jacket until she found her credit-clip, and passed over several chips to the barman. "And this is for the disturbance," she said, handing over an extra chip. He nodded appreciatively before sauntering off.

Yaela, still reeling from the discovery of Reethers' and Dand's unauthorised supply of classified Rebellion data, turned back to the table and raised her glass, "Well. To dirty work and dirty secrets."

Her toast drew a nervous chuckle from the group, and aside from Atze and Reethers, they all raised their glasses in response and drank simultaneously.

The ale was good. Bitter and cool, but backed with a deep and subtle note of caramel.

"Good ale," Yaela said.

"It is that," Pyes said, "But not the best they've served." Then he turned to the still pouting Atze, "Come on, Pin. Don't be a child. You got what you asked for, more or less."

Atze 'humphed' as his squadmates hid their smiles, but finally took a swig of his drink.

"I'm sorry," Yaela said holding her hand out to the last member of the group, the young, brown haired youth seated to her right, "I didn't get your name yet."

The young lad took her hand hesitantly, "I'm Wing, but everyone calls me by my callsign." He smiled, looking embarrassed, then added, "It's Spark, by the way. No one ever gave me a real name, so I made Wing up for myself, but Spark is better, I think. I'm kind of a slicer."

"Kind of?" Ermourl said, "Kid, you're the best slicer I've ever known. Grenade Squadron is lucky to have you."

Spark's cheeks flashed red.

"Well it's good to meet you, Spark," Yaela said.

Inwardly she felt uncomfortable about shaking his hand, though. He was too young to be mixed up with vigilante Rebels, and the odds were it wouldn't end well for him. She resolved to come back to Mak'Leth on her own and recruit him when she had the chance.

"It's been a while since we had the really good stuff," Captain Pyes spoke absently.

Yaela flashed him a confused look.

"The ale, I mean," he clarified. "Mingo used to make _the_ best ale in the galaxy."

The squadron nodded agreement.

"In the galaxy?" Yaela repeated, amused. That was an even bigger boast than the sign out front, she thought.

The Rodian, Brakk, carried on Pyes' explanation "She used to get shipments of Corellian wheat regularly, and she could work wonders with the stuff. But the smuggler who brought it in hasn't been past in a while." Everyone nodded at his words, sipping their ales almost wistfully. "No idea how he had access to it. The Corellians are as stingy with that stuff as a Hutt with money."

Yaela took another sip from her own glass. It was still very good, she thought.

"He was always pretty crafty, mind you," Ermourl joined, "Like a young Solo. Still can't believe he got out of that belt with the First Order's new mining tech. Bold spawn of a sith, that one."

"Especially with all those TIEs after him!" Spark threw in.

Something unfolded suspiciously in Yaela's mind. She was sure she had heard this story before, and not all that long ago. "Who was the smuggler?" She asked, already sure she knew the answer, and dreading it all the same.

"Pace Avers," Pyes said.

Yaela had heard that name too many times in the last week, and she was ready for it this time. She managed to keep her reaction mostly hidden from the group, but she had to swallow twice to get the lump down that had abruptly appeared in her throat. She tried to sound casual as she asked, "What happened to him?"

"Don't really know, honestly," Pyes replied. "His runs were erratic at the best of times. It's a shame though, we really only started coming here for the ale. Then Avers started bringing us information too. We built a good working relationship, but we haven't seen him in a long while. He would have made a good Grenadier."

"How long ago was the last time he visited?"

Pyes looked to his men, who shrugged, and then back to Yaela, "I'd guess around about a year ago. A standard year, that is."

A standard year. The words hit Yaela like a herd of banthas.

Pace was supposed to have been dead a lot longer than a year ago. In fact, Yaela had first held the 'evidence' of his death in her hands more than three years ago. Byler had brought it to her himself. There was no way he could have survived the jump with the ship in the state it was in. No one could have. She had accepted Pace's death as an unmitigated certainty.

Except, according to these men, Pace had somehow been coming here regularly, well after that time.

Her last sip of ale turned even more bitter in her throat.

The bastard was alive.

Unable to suppress a sudden wave of hysteria, Yaela burst into laughter.

Grenade Squadron all looked at her, startled, then shared confused glances with one another.

Yaela looked at Reethers and gave him a rueful smile. She wished he wasn't at the table suddenly. Wished that he had taken her up on her offer to deliver Yaela here and then leave. Then again, she thought, it was only fair that she had a chance to surprise him in return for his own dirty little secret.

"Something funny, Yaela?" It was Pyes who asked the question, but all the men's eyes were fixed on her now.

"Not especially," she said, drawing more confused looks, and turned to face Pyes. "The smuggler you're talking about is a war criminal, Captain."

"Oh?" The Captain replied.

"Everyone's a war criminal these days, depending on who you ask," Spark commented.

"It doesn't really mean anything anymore, Blue," Atze said. Yaela couldn't detect the same arrogance from earlier in his voice. "Hell... you're drinkin' with a bunch of war criminals right now, sweetheart."

"No, no," Yaela said, shaking her head, "Pace Avers is a very special kind of war criminal." She spun her glass absent mindedly between her fingers as she spoke.

The men sat, their drinks temporarily forgotten, as they waited impatiently for an explanation.

"Have you ever heard the story of Calayis' Folly?" She asked the table.

All of the men shook their heads. Except for Pyes, who stared intently at Yaela.

"Well, you all know about the Kreytak Convention, I assume." This time, everyone nodded, even Spark.

Yes, everyone had heard of the Kreytak Convention. The story behind it wasn't all that well known - but no one who had ever been on board a ship with a working hyperdrive had _not_ heard about the Kreytak Convention. It was drummed into every kid at a young age by peers, parents, and propaganda. Drummed in until it was like background noise in a child's mind. Even children born into slavery were told of the Kreytak Convention.

No one ever spent any time _consciously_ thinking about it after early childhood, it simply existed as law within the galaxy's collective subconscious.

"Well Calayis was the Jedi responsible for the creation of the Kreytak Convention. And Pace is the first person to ever violate it."

"What?!" Brakk and Ermourl exclaimed in unison.

Yaela nodded, "He invented a hyperdrive system that could jump without any safety mechanisms. No pre-jump calculations, no inertial sensor override, not even any gravitational inhibition. Nothing. Instantaneous, unmapped, unhampered hyperdrive jumps."

The table went silent. Jaws slid open.

After a few heavy breaths, Spark was the first to brave the conversation again "But..." he stammered, "I thought that was impossible."

Yaela shook her head at the youth, sipping her drink.

"Not impossible, no. Not theoretically. Calayis Ryter was the first, and only other person ever to do it," she said after swallowing, "And the Kreytak Convention was created because of what he did. Because of what his ship did to Kreytak, the first and only time he used the hyperdrive. Because of what it did to the planet, and to the whole star system."

More silence. Grenade Squadron waited for her to continue. Even Reethers had forgotten his earlier discomfort and was staring at her wide eyed.

"The force of the uncalculated jump tore his ship apart. But worse than that, the fluctuations in inertia within that split second generated forces stronger than a black hole. It tore his ship, and the ships chasing him, apart, in a fraction of time too short to be measured. Most of the ships were crushed. Those that escaped the tidal forces were flung outwards at unimaginable speeds. It decimated the Kreytak system. The force was so strong in that moment, that the orbits of all the other planets around that star were irreparably altered."

Yaela took another drink to moisten her throat. "The whole system may never recover. And if it ever does, it won't be for millions of years."

No one said anything. Pyes, Brakk, Ermourl and Atze all took a generous swig of ale in the reverent silence.

"They called it 'Calayis' Dash', and the Old Republic knew it could never happen again," Yaela pressed on. "It was too dangerous. If anyone was allowed to work on that sort of technology, someone would eventually weaponise it, and it would change the galaxy as we know it within a matter of years - probably tear it apart altogether. But," she shrugged, "No one ever figured out how Calayis did it, anyway. Even his attempt was a disaster. His death, and the convention, are a testament to the failure of his experiment. Not to mention no one wanted to be responsible for something like that ever happening again. It might not have stopped someone working for the Empire, or the First Order, I guess, if they ever figured out how the tech worked. But in any case, for whatever reason, no one has ever violated the Kreytak Convention since its inception. No one except for Pace."

Atze let out a low whistle.

"He built a hyperdrive engine with no safeties?" Spark asked, incredulous.

Yaela looked hard at him as her glass clanked back onto the surface of the table.

"That's the thing, kid," She said, shaking her head again, "He didn't build one. He built _three_."


	8. The Folly of Pace Avers

_Alyana._

_That was her name._

_He loved her. Calayis loved her._

_But the Jedi… the Jedi thought they could fix anything. Everything._

_They shouldn't have done it, young one. Shouldn't have meddled in the affairs of Kreytak. It was not their place, not their mission. The Jedi were there to learn, and listen. Not to take action._

_That, truly, was their first mistake._

_The settlers squabbled, and the Jedi interfered. Our master thought he could make things right. Fool._

_Instead the locals turned on the Jedi, as Calayis knew they would._

_It was the master who cut down the first settler. It was the master, young one, not Calayis, as they would have you believe. It was the master who killed Alyana._

_In that moment, all was lost._

_The settlers fought the Jedi, and in their foolish arrogance, the Jedi thought to defend themselves with their mighty powers._

_Yet none were as mighty as Calayis. Not in raw strength._

_He alone stood between the Jedi and the settlers. He alone fought his kin, when they sought to silence those who stood against them._

_He alone did what was right._

_And they called him evil._

* * *

" _Three?!"_

Yaela nodded to Reethers' exclamation. It was the first thing he had said since he had introduced her to the squadron.

"The first he built as a child, using materials he scrounged and stole from junkyards, and the old academy on Corellia."

Pyes gave a slow nod of his head. "He grew up there, then. That's how he was getting the wheat."

"I would assume so, Captain," Yaela agreed. "His Father held a significant stake in some farm holdings, amongst other things. I always got the impression he wasn't around much for Pace's upbringing, though. The way Pace spoke about him, I don't think they were close. Which is the most significant reason why Pace had the freedom to run around and get into whatever kind of trouble he wanted, I suppose. When he was young, he built his first ordinary hyperdrive engine. I guess he wanted to see it actually work, but being stuck on the surface of a planet, a normal engine never would have. So not long after that he tweaked it to work with no safeties. His experiment was surprisingly, and terrifyingly successful."

"That's crazy," Spark said.

"How did he do it?" Brakk asked.

Yaela shook her head, "I'm not sure. I'm also not sure I'd want to know, honestly."

"What did he do with it?" This time Ermourl asked the question.

"Nothing. First time he used it, it blew through the roof of one of the decommissioned academy labs and disappeared into space. It took out a positioning satellite on the way out, though. Vaporized it in an instant. He's lucky it didn't hit anything manned, or even worse, something a lot bigger. If he'd destroyed an outer-system patrol ship…" Yaela let her tone drop gravely, and left her sentence unfinished, prompting the men to imagine their own conclusions. To let them picture the destructive forces of a several-thousand tonne ship being shattered apart in orbit, and the debris drifting around the system, slowly breaking into the atmosphere, piece by planet-shattering piece.

Yaela heard a few gulps.

"Anyway, when the Corellian armed forces came to check it out they found Pace in the lab, unconscious. Because he was so young, he was only sentenced to four years in the Corellian penal colony."

"He did _four years_?! How old was he?" Spark was transfixed with Yaela's story, as if he'd forgotten the other men around him.

"I'd say around twelve, if the records are anything to go by. He was _lucky_ , Spark. If he was an adult, or even just a few years older, he would have been sent to the mining colonies on Kessel. And he would have disappeared there."

Spark swallowed.

"But in answer to your first question, no," Yaela shook her head, "He didn't do the four years. He spent less than a month cleaning soil in the Corellian refinement facilities, before he was recruited by Captain Gawat as a tech engineer for the Resistance. Looking back, he did turn out to be a valuable asset to the Resistance for many years, but at the time Gawat was mostly concerned with getting him off Corellia, and away from anywhere where he could have fallen into the hands of the First Order."

"The First Order would have had him build another of his hyperdrives again," Pyes reasoned.

"Possibly, yes. They may not have been so stupid, but it was not worth the risk, either way. And if they did, they would have had him build more than just one, I'd wager. Many, many more. Gawat recruited Pace so he could be closely watched, and kept him busy with less potentially catastrophic tasks. He also wanted the events to be lost in memory, so no one would be inspired to follow Pace's example," Yaela said, and then laughed, ruefully. "Except the stubborn sithspawn took it upon himself to build another one anyway."

Pyes nodded, "He always struck me as the type of man who wants to leave his mark on the universe."

"Oh, you have no idea, Captain," Yaela gave a bitter smile, then swept up her glass and drank from it wholeheartedly. She drank deeply, until her lungs tightened, demanding air again. Even still, she took her time in swallowing the last gulp, then let her glass drop heavily onto the table as she let out the stale breath with a sound like an airlock as it decompressed.

The men waited silently.

"Years after his recruitment, when Pace's childhood transgressions had been mostly forgotten, Gawat was appointed command of the Mon Calamari battle cruiser, _Raddus,_ and he took Pace with him to work as a senior engineer. He worked in the hangar bay mostly, on the starfighters, but occasionally he tinkered with the cruiser's systems itself, developing ways of pushing the _Raddus'_ capabilities. Stretching the life of its shields, and creating more cost-efficient turbo-lasers, to name some. He broke ground with a few prototype upgrades, that were subsequently adopted by other starcruisers in the fleet. What no one knew, though, was that at the same time, over the course of a few years, he tweaked the _Raddus'_ hyperdrive engine to replicate what he'd done on Corellia.

"To this day, I have no clue how he wasn't caught sooner - how he got away with it for so long. Somehow, none of the other engineers knew what he was up to. It was almost too late when Admiral Holdo discovered what he was doing. Like Gawat, she agreed it was best to keep the existence of the tech from becoming common knowledge. It was just safer that way, they figured, so they kept it mostly to themselves. They were content for Pace to quietly face punishment, away from the eyes of the galaxy, and then move on. They thought it best if no one else ever knew about the hyperdrive. When the First Order held the entirety of the Resistance on a very short tether, however, and the very survival of it seemed like nothing but a doomed hope, Holdo was instead forced to use it."

All eyes fixed on Yaela, she just looked down at her glass, spinning it slowly on the table between her fingers. She had told very few people any of this, and the memory of Holdo's sacrifice still shook her, years after the event.

She wasn't with the Resistance at the time, so she had not witnessed the enormous cruiser's suicidal hyperspace dash into the First Order fleet. It had been described to her, though. In that bittersweet moment, as the pilots gave her the details of the event, her heart had simultaneously leapt with pride for Holdo's heroism, and sunk into despair at the loss to the Resistance. Ironically, the pilots who had told her of it had no idea at the time that Yaela was in fact one of the only living people who knew how it had even been possible. She might have been the only one left alive at all, at that point, aside from Pace.

"Holdo's Run."

Yaela looked up. Everyone's eyes moved to Brakk.

"We all know of Holdo's Run, Yaela," he said, in his heavily spun basic. "It was a brave thing."

"Yes. And perhaps more than a little stupid."

"Stupid?" Spark exclaimed, "She saved the last of the Resistance. The Rebellion wouldn't exist without her!"

"Possibly, Spark. And you're right, she did save the resistance. But she had no way of knowing if Pace's hyperdrive would work. As a matter of fact, it turned out he wasn't actually finished on it. Almost, but not completely. By all rights it shouldn't have worked."

Spark looked to speak again, but changed his mind halfway, opening and closing his mouth like a choked fish.

"Think of the damage one small shuttle did to Kreytak," Yaela continued, looking him in the eye, and letting him think back to the destruction she had just described. "Imagine the effect a Mon Calamari battle cruiser would have had if it had ended the same way as Calayis' Dash."

She watched closely the reaction on Spark's face, on all the mens' faces. It was the same way she had reacted when she had pictured it. Their eyes went distant for a moment, imagining the possibilities, then one by one they all looked for something to distract themselves - their drinks, the sudden awareness of an itch that demanded their unwavering attention, an uncomfortable tightening of their clothing that needed to be pulled loose urgently. No one wanted to picture it - it made even combat veterans uncomfortable.

"Purely by a million lifetimes' worth of luck did the jump work as well as it did. But the shields were not ready for the sudden force of inertia. They failed instantly. Which is why the ship broke apart the second Holdo pushed it into lightspeed. In a sad way, It actually could not have worked any better."

Yaela took a pause with that thought, and waved to the barman at the bar, who begrudgingly put down the glass he was polishing, and wandered around the bar to head towards the table.

"Great story, Blue," Atze chimed in after a long conversational hiatus. "Doesn't tell us 'spit about what you're doing in here though."

"Yes," Ermourl agreed, "Why are you telling us all this?"

"And what about the third engine?" Spark put in.

Yaela eyed each of them before speaking. "The modified hyperdrive on the _Raddus_ actually _was_ the third engine. Pace started work on another engine at around the same time as he did on the _Raddus_ , only a lot smaller. He finished it well before the evacuation and decimation of the Resistance fleet."

Yaela hesitated, then sighed, thinking about the words she was about to say. It would be the first time she would ever say them out loud to anyone who did not already know. The barman approached the table at that moment, though, delaying her.

"Could we get another round here, please?" She asked.

"Not for me, thanks," Spark interjected, nodding sheepishly at his barely emptied glass.

Yaela nodded to him, then back to the barman, "Just make it six then."

The barman grunted an assent, and this time Yaela handed him the credits in advance. He shuffled off.

"Go on," Pyes Prompted.

Yaela noticed as she was about to speak that Reethers had seemed to have lost any trace of his previous anxiety. He looked more flat than anything, now. More likely at this point, Yaela speculated, that he was feeling the weight of disillusionment upon hearing of Pace's crimes. It would do the young lad good to have a taste of the real world, Yaela told herself, refusing to feel guilt at being the deliverer of the story. If anything, it could even shake him out of any delusions he may have had about Grenade Squadron being the glorious sort of heroes he admired, too.

"Pace installed the second engine on an old B-wing. The Resistance had plenty of them left in salvage, and they were using the parts to build newer ships - transports and so forth. Pace restored one whole instead, and put his experimental engine in it." Yaela stopped and took a deep breath, "And I helped him."

That drew short breaths from almost everyone at the table.

Atze laughed, the sound low and full of arrogance. "Well, Blue. That's some twist."

She pressed on quickly.

"I didn't know it at the time," she explained, and the men nodded in understanding, if they looked a little skeptical. "I was working as a messenger for Admiral Holdo at the time. Not so much as a diplomat, back then. I used to deliver messages and orders amongst the Resistance that were too sensitive for a droid to handle, or to deliver across subspace communications. Messages that were too easily lost in translation, or that required the dynamic delivery only an organic person would be capable of.

"I was assigned to a stint on the _Raddus_ when Pace moved over with Gawat, and I worked with him a bit over the years. I had a lot of spare time between missions, but it turns out I had a small knack for some tinkering. Nothing like Pace's talents, mind you, but enough that he could teach me a bit here and there to keep me occupied. We worked together more closely in the last year on that ship."

Yaela could see a knowing smile creep onto Atze's face, and she did her best to ignore it. That was not the story she wanted to tell today, and she didn't want to give Atze the excuse to ask.

Still, she couldn't help the bitterness that came through when she spoke again.

"He had me help him hide the B-Wing, then, over time, restore it back to flight capability and install the hyperdrive engine on it. He convinced me that it was just a side-project, that he was experimenting on new tech that could far outstrip anything the First Order currently had in operation. I asked Gawat about it once, and he told me he had Pace working on a lot of projects, and that most of them were best not talked about, for fear of spies and information leaks. As it became clear later on, it was obviously one of the few projects that Gawat was _not_ aware of. I was... blinded at the time, so stupidly, I trusted him."

Yaela made a concerted effort to avoid looking at Atze, but she couldn't help imagining the expression he surely still had on his face, and it set her blood afire all the same. She scowled, at no one in particular, as she carried on.

"The truth was, he knew his work on the _Raddus_ would be discovered sooner or later, so the slimy piece of bantha-filth tricked me into helping him steal parts, and build a ship he could escape in. When Holdo found out about the modified drive on the cruiser, I defended Pace at first, not knowing at the time what he was really doing, or about the drive he had built as a child. Pace disappeared without a word that same day, along with the B-Wing."

Yaela looked up. She despised the looks of pity that overtook the men's faces at her last words. Somehow, seeing the men who had been polite to her so far, now looking down on her with a condescending sympathy, was even more infuriating than the mocking laugh that Atze let out.

"Ouch," Atze said through his laughter. "Oh Blue, that's too cruel."

"It is what it is, Pin," She replied. "And in all honesty, it was probably a blessing. Best I didn't get any more… tied up with the scum-drain than I already was."

"Riiight," Atze drew out the word, and his eyebrows rose in suspicion.

She ignored him. "It took me weeks to clear my name. Eventually, when I convinced Holdo and Gawat that I hadn't known what I was working on, I also convinced them to let me go after Pace. They sent me with orders to bring him in for a court martial. They wanted to try him in secret, on behalf of the New Republic. Since I already knew about the drive, and about Pace and his ship, they figured I was the best person for the job. Well, I was good at diplomacy, and getting information out of people, but hunting someone down was not really where my skill set lay. So I hired a bounty hunter, and fed him the information I had gathered to help track him down and capture Pace.

"It was more than three years ago now that Byler returned and informed me that he had been forced to kill Pace. He had eventually found him floating near a well-known pirate sector, where Pace had attacked him, and Byler had been forced to shoot Pace's ship down in defense. Before it was blown apart completely, though, Pace jumped into hyperspace. But his ship was already heavily damaged, and the only nearby system was an unoccupied gas giant. He had nowhere to run to, and he was in a ship that wasn't capable of running. Whether in the actual jump, or afterwards, he should have died."

Pyes laughed, drawing everyone's attention. He held one hand to his chest and shook his head at Yaela, "I'm certain I've said those exact words a few times myself, Yaela. Hell, I bet there's a lot of folk who've said that about Pace Avers. But your bounty hunter was at least right about his ship. I haven't seen Pace flying a B-Wing ever." He drained the rest of his drink in one go as the barman returned with a second tray of full glasses, and spread them out on the table.

Reethers leaned forward, giving Yaela an accusatory stare. Clearly he wasn't pleased with having the vision of his hero shattered. "You must still have been chasing Avers across the galaxy after the Resistance was dead," he said.

She levelled her eyes at the Cadet. "The man's a danger to the entire galaxy, Reethers. It doesn't matter who's running things, doesn't matter if we're at war or not. That kind of tech was outlawed more than a hundred years ago, in peacetime mind you, and for very good reasons. He can't be allowed to keep building and using those hyperdrives."

Atze spoke up, "So you came here to find out if Pace was still alive?" He tilted his head towards Reethers, "The kid told you stories, didn't he?"

Reethers went bright red and looked intently at his newly refreshed drink.

"It doesn't matter how I ended up here," Yaela said, "You men have an obligation to the galaxy to do whatever you can, to help me find Pace, and bring him to the Rebellion." She drank a little of her ale. "Do that, and I'll be happy to pretend I didn't hear anything about your operations here."

Pyes shrugged. "I doubt it would matter if you did. I don't think the Rebellion has the time or resources to worry about us. Not yet, anyhow."

"Perhaps, but it wouldn't end well for Reethers and Dand, and you'd be cut off. I assume these little slices of action my pilots are drip-feeding you are also a fruitful way of stocking your proverbial storerooms, as well as doing your part for the cause, no?"

Reethers looked up. Pyes studied Yaela. The rest of the men looked between Yaela and Pyes.

Yaela sipped her drink again, waiting for Pyes' response.

When it came, there was an edge of tightness to his words.

"I've only just met you, Yaela. But I feel like I can trust you, to a point. I feel as though you at least _believe_ you are telling the truth. And if it is that, the truth, I mean, then I agree Pace will need to be stopped, though I'm not sure he needs to disappear altogether. He's never struck me as one of the bad guys, Yaela. And I'm not in the habit of jumping on board with persecutions while I hold only one side of the story. In case you've already forgotten, we're not exactly treading the golden line ourselves," he gestured to the men around him. "I'd like to hear what Avers has to say about things, before I help you out any. If I see him again, I'll ask him about it all. Considering his knack for getting out of trouble, though, I'm not sure I want to be the one to try and hold him, if he isn't willing to turn himself in voluntarily. But do whatever you like - inform the Rebellion about our enterprise, if you feel the need."

Yaela chewed on her tongue for a bit.

"In any case,' the Captain continued, "We haven't seen Pace in a long time, so you're probably asking the wrong people. He could be on the other side of the galaxy with the Wookies, for all we know." He shrugged, "Or maybe he finally got himself killed after all."

"Doubt it," Atze retorted.

"Who knows," Said Brakk, thoughtfully. "He has a knack for getting out of trouble, sure. But he has an even better knack for getting into it."

Ermourl and Pyes nodded.

"I actually agree with you, Pin," Yaela said, surprising everyone. "I saw Pace's ship when he jumped away from Byler - he showed me the holo-recordings. Pace _should_ have died." She shook her head, eyes closed. "No. Pace has already survived more than anyone could reasonably expect. At this point, I'd have to actually see a blaster bolt hit him dead on for me to feel comfortable that he was definitely, unquestionably dead. Even then, I'd be sure to put a few more in him myself, just to be sure."

Pyes laughed. "Just remember that not everyone is likely to judge him as harshly as you are."

"His crimes cannot be dismissed, Captain. No one has ever violated the Kreytak convention before him. It's unthinkable to let it go unpunished."

"Perhaps no has ever done it before, Yaela. Or perhaps they've managed to keep it to themselves if they have," he shot back. "I let you sit here with us tonight because I had a feeling you weren't a real troublemaker when you walked in, Yaela, and I stand by that, Pin's antics notwithstanding. I'm a pretty good judge of character. But on the same token, I've never had a bad feeling about Pace, either. He isn't a malicious person, Yaela."

"People don't have to be malicious to cause great harm, Pyes. Sometimes it just takes bad judgement. Or in this case, _really_ bad judgement."

Yaela sighed. Suddenly, she felt tired. She stood up, surprising Grenade Squadron, and slid her chair out behind her.

Then, surprising the group even further, she took her half full glass from the table and drank from it, gulping great mouthfuls of the ale, until every last drop of the liquid was gone. With the ale vanished, she slammed the empty glass back down on the table and let out her breath in a hearty sigh. She shook her head from side to side, tilting it back to let the beads tangled between her lekku fall loose. They clinked against one another, and she let the sound die out before speaking again.

"Thank you for your time, gentleman." She looked deliberately at Atze, "And your 'pleasurable' company. If you change your minds about helping me, I'm sure Reethers will be happy to put us in touch. In the meantime, for now, I won't say anything to the Rebellion about your activities. But only because I feel there's a chance you might do the right thing, if Pace ever does show up again. And that takes priority over everything. _Everything_ , gentleman." She let those words sink in a while, before finally finishing, "Nor will I ever assist you in your missions, however, and you will not see Reethers and Dand again while they are piloting a ship which is assigned to me and my duties."

The men looked at their Captain, who watched Yaela for a moment before speaking. "Thank you for the drinks, Yaelyat'kouarri. Our discussion has been… enlightening. And your company has been a genuine pleasure."

Yaela was slightly taken aback by the man's use of her full name. Not many people outside of other diplomats ever bothered to remember it after she told them her shorter nickname. She had detected soon after their initial meeting that the Captain was brighter than he let show, but perhaps he had even more depth to that intellect than she had first considered. And in using her full name, he had revealed a portion of that depth to her. She had the distinct feeling that he had not done so by accident.

"I'll escort you back to the ship," Reethers said, as he started to push out his chair.

"No, Reethers, it's fine," Yaela said, stopping him, his legs halfway out from under the table.

He looked up at her, puzzled.

"Really, kid, I... need some time to think. Stay here and finish your drink. You could probably use it."

At that Reethers nodded, but then straightened again, "But, Yaela-"

"I mean it, kid," She said more firmly, "Stay and talk to your friends."

"But...," he trailed off, and looked around at the squadron members, as if hoping for one of them to make the decision for him.

After an awkward pause, Ermourl finally came to his rescue, "Come on, kid. The lady can clearly take care of herself."

"Hang around for a bit and have a few drinks," Brakk joined, "We'll tell you about our last run on Fercor Du'Hava. It was hairier than Ermourl's arse in the winter."

The men laughed, and it seemed to give Reethers the resolve he needed to take the offer.

"Alright, Yaela, but let me know when you get to the ship, ok?"

Yaela nodded.

"And Yaela," Reethers added, "I'm sorry… about everything."

"We can talk about it later, kid, on the ship. We all have secrets, sometimes. And sometimes we just have to do what helps us sleep at night."

He seemed to think about that deeply, and Yaela felt it was a good note to leave on.

She said a final goodbye to Grenade Squadron, which the men reciprocated, then she winked one last time at Atze before leaving with a, "Seeya round, sweetheart."

The men laughed at their squad mate as she walked away, and as the voices trailed off she heard Ermourl's low voice protesting, "My coat is _fur_ , just so you know, it's not the same thing as hair."

"Yes it is, idiot!" Someone replied, and a heartier round of laughter from the table followed her as she stepped around the other tables and out through the door. She flipped a credit chip to the big doorman as he let her out, earning from him a gruff, "Thanks," and she noted that his cigarra was still faintly smoking, but, oddly, didn't look any shorter than it had when they first entered the bar.

She stepped out onto the street, and the door shut behind her with barely a pause. She took a healthy breath of the cool night air through her nose and felt her senses clearing a little. It was fresher outside than in the bar. Greasy and thick, still, but fresher nonetheless.

As she stepped down onto the cracked walkway and began back the way she had come, she became suddenly aware of her lekku undulating against her back. Her hair pricked, and from the corner of her eye she saw shadows playing between the buildings behind her. She spun.

She was sure she had felt a presence, like she was being watched. But there was nothing there. No movement, no creatures, or people, or even any flickering lights.

She shivered, and walked on, a little faster this time.

She reached into her vest pocket and drew her comlink from it. Pressing the button on its side, she heard the click of the channel activating, and shortly after, Dand's voice.

"Ma'am?"

"Dand, I'm headed back to the ship. I told Reethers to stay for a bit. I'll explain when I get there."

"Ok, I'll head over-"

"No," She interrupted him, "It's ok, Lieutenant. I wouldn't mind the longer walk. Please."

"Is everything ok?"

"We'll see," Yaela replied, a little bitterly. "It's only an extra ten minutes, Dand. I'll be fine."

"If you're sure." Then he added, "I'll raise the scan frequency to keep an eye out for anything."

"Fair enough," she agreed. It wouldn't hurt, she thought, and the ship's scanners might spot any more shadows before she jumped at them again.

"And Ma'am, there's a message here from Deckiss, he's waiting for you to respond. Commander Connix sent you a callback signal, too. Says she's got new orders."

"Thank you Lieutenant."

"Ma'am," Dand replied in monotone.

"See you soon, then."

The com clicked. Dand's diplomatic way of ending a conversation. She shook her head and gave a short, slightly bitter chuckle. At least in that way, the Lieutenant was predictable.

She deactivated her own comlink and hid it in her vest again as she stepped out onto the busy main street.

Weaving through the crowds, and then around the fountain, Yaela sped off in the direction of the outskirts, towards the Eastern edge of Leth'Lobar. She vaguely remembered seeing two roads connecting the city to the open outskirts' landing patches they had passed on their way down. Once she found the nearest one, she could follow it all the way to where Dand and the _Rook_ waited in the outskirts development.

Sure enough, as she neared the edge of the city, all the roads seemed to merge, until there was a single road that shot directly out, off into the darkness to where she knew the outskirts lay.

She followed the road, walking slowly, letting the surrounding blackness absorb, and absolve her of her rushing thoughts and emotions. She had to prepare herself to speak to Deckiss, knowing almost for certain that Pace was alive. Or at least knowing that he had survived beyond Byler's reports to the contrary. Byler had a lot to answer for, but Deckiss even more so. She hoped against hope that they didn't already know what she had just found out. If they did, she would have stern words for them both, to be sure.

Even as she cleared her mind of the chaos, she could not immediately think of what she might say to Deckiss, other than to ask, as politely as possible, for an explanation, and the Rebellion's money back.

Yaela felt the hairs on her arms prickle again, and she started walking a little faster. Knowing that Dand was scanning the area gave her a little comfort, but did not stop the irrational part of her mind from leaping to horrible conclusions all the same.

Nothing jumped out and attacked her though, although the odd speeder bike did skim past every minute or so, blinding her temporarily with their bright lights, and kicking up small clouds of dust that forced a cough out of her each time. She made her way across the open space to the outskirts after several minutes of walking. It took her another few minutes to find where Dand had landed the _Rook,_ between two larger, unidentifiable shuttles.

She punched a code into the intercom on the outside of the ship's hull, and Dand responded by lowering the ramp to let her in. Even before it met the ground, Yaela skipped onto it and walked into the ship's lounge, ducking under the top of the doorway.

She called down to the cockpit, "Patch me through to Deckiss now, if you would Dand, and then you and I will need to have a word."

Without waiting for a response, which she knew she was unlikely to get anyway, Yaela marched away from the cockpit through the hatchway that led into the comms room, the door sliding open, and then closed again as she stepped into the center of the room. She sat in the chair and watched the blinking light on the main panel, waiting for the dark face of Deckiss to appear in front of her. She leaned back in the chair, enjoying the silence for now, and breathing deeply of the comfortably warm and clean air filtering through the Ship's vents. Then she realised her heart was thumping a little faster than normal, and her cheeks were flushed from the short walk.

She took a moment to focus herself, to calm her nerves a little before talking to Deckiss. Soaking in the peace inside the plated hull of the _Rook,_ she closed her eyes.

Yaela jumped when she heard the sound outside the hatchway door. A sound that chilled her veins in an instant. The tell-tale combination of a short hiss, followed by a sharp twang.

It was a blaster shot.

Without thought, Yaela reacted like lightning. Shooting out of the chair in a flash, she cut off the hail signal with the flick of a hand. With the other, she scooped her blaster out of its holster and brought it up to her chest. She spun to the far side of the comms room, and reached over to a small flat panel in the wall. Pushing it once firmly, it sprung open, revealing a small pad with six buttons. She punched a sequence of four numbers in as quick as she could, closed the panel, then turned to the door. With her back pressed against the wall, she edged slowly over to the hatch until it slid open.

As soon as it did, she spun around the doorway, blaster held in front of her, and looked out into the lounge. She hoped desperately that she was quick enough to still be able to surprise the shooter as she burst out.

But all thoughts of getting a drop on anyone disappeared as she stepped into the modest room. She paled.

The lounge was empty, except for the staple furniture, and Dand laying slumped against the bulkhead outside the cockpit. His shoulder was smouldering where a blaster shot had torn away skin and flesh, and burnt everything underneath and around the joint.

"Dand!" She cried out, and started to move towards him.

It was a stupid move, and she cursed herself a second later, when she felt the still-hot tip of a blaster pressed against her neck. She froze.

"Fancy seein' you here, Counselor." The voice was gravelly, low and vaguely condescending.

Yaela's breath caught in her throat.

" _Byler_?!' She turned her head slightly to the right to look at him. The blaster muzzle pushed into her throat a little harder. The Bothan smiled at her as they made eye contact, flashing his canine teeth from behind his gray, furry snout. Behind him, the ship's ramp was still wide open and unmoving, beyond it was the darkness which she had just walked through.

"What in hell are you doing here?" She asked the bounty hunter.

"Well it's nice to see you again, too."

Yaela clenched her teeth against the pain of the burning gun muzzle. "Why did you shoot the Lieutenant?" She growled at him.

Byler shrugged with his free arm, "He didn't want to let me on his ship, I suppose. I'm sure he'll be fine." His face went dark, "Unless he tries something stupid again."

Yaela narrowed her eyes at him. He was standing too close for her to be able to try anything without giving him plenty of time to react.

Carefully, Byler plucked the blaster out of Yaela's grip and threw it across the floor.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Byler," She said, "But while you're here, I hope you don't mind me asking for a refund."

Byler laughed. "Oh no you don't, Yaela. I'm not buying it. I saw the way you looked at me when I told you Pace was dead. You hated me for it, even more than you think you hate me now."

"What are you talking about? Let me go!"

"I don't think so, Counselor. Not happening. Even if you're not helping to hide Pace directly, you're at least coming with me as insurance."

"If I'm not… _what?!"_

As Byler opened his mouth, presumably to explain, Yaela caught a movement out of the corner of her eye.

Apparently, Byler caught it too. He spun and pushed Yaela across the room, just as Dand raised his blaster. Yaela fell to the floor and rolled her body to turn back to face the two men, just in time to see Dand fire.

His shot hit the wall, right where Byler had stood a split second earlier. Yaela watched in horror as Byler flicked his own blaster pistol up, aiming it towards Dand, and fired. Injured, and unable to move out of the firing line, Dand tried his best to pull his arm in front of him to catch the bolt. But the wound had drained him of energy, and his arm moved too slow. The shot hit him square in the chest, and he slumped to the deck like a rag doll, lifeless.

Yaela screamed, "NO!"

As the cry echoed off the ship walls, there was a fraction of a second in which Byler and Yaela simply looked at each other, her incensed and confused, and him looking mildly irritated.

Then, in a fury, Yaela braced her feet against the bulkhead behind her and pushed herself forward. She leapt towards the pistol that Byler had thrown from her earlier. She hit the deck with an unceremonious thump, but she had calculated near perfectly, and her fingers clasped around the butt of the blaster just as she landed. In the same motion she twisted herself around to point the weapon at Byler.

But she was too late. He had already drawn another, smaller pistol, and he had tracked her across the room with it.

He fired in the same moment she spun around.

Waves of blue energy shot out and engulfed her. Her body went stiff, and she jerked once, then passed out.


	9. Dark Prices

_Excellent, my young apprentice, excellent._

_You have done very well._

_Our work is coming along. I feel the life flowing through me already. Through us._

_I can feel the machines, too. They are inside me, and all around. I can… talk to them._

_They can't speak, but I can feel them listening to my thoughts, and they understand. It is a strange feeling. As if I am split into a million grains of sand, yet I feel I am more than I ever was before. Than we ever were. I feel..._

_Wait. Young one._

_Did you feel that? Yes, you did. I know you did. I can sense it._

_Another mind._

_Another who will come to us. Who will help us. It is so young. Younger, even, than yours. So fragile, and… well, how interesting._

_How curious, young one._

_It feels so similar to yours._

* * *

Silvier was standing in a cold, wet cave. The walls shimmered, and dark rust grew like mould, spreading from cracks where the water trickled. As the rust grew, and spread, the water dried, the cracks overtaken. The rust spread further still, covering the inside of the cave. Then it sprouted from the walls, growing away from them and across the expanse of the cave to meet in the center. It covered the opening of the cave, blotting out the midday light that streamed through.

The light disappeared, but only for a moment.

When it returned, it was of a different quality. Blue of the hottest suns, but dim and no longer steady, flickering and dancing like flame.

Silvier was standing in a square room now, with walls of matte gray iron. The room started to split apart. Thin fissures appeared in the walls, and the wind rushed into the room, cold and moist. Tentacles slowly streamed through the gaps, small and weedy at first, but growing ever bigger as they tore the crumbling walls apart. They sped in towards him, more and more, never ending, and soon they filled the spaces entirely, until Silvier could no longer feel the wind again. They slithered along the floor, until they writhed at Silvier's feet, and flailed in the air, searching for his body.

Up his legs they coiled, and around his chest, gripping, squeezing. He wanted to stop them, but he felt helpless. His arms and legs were weak, or numb.

Then something dark shimmered into existence before him, and a figure appeared.

Silvier stared in disbelief, forgetting the tentacles momentarily.

It was his brother.

It was impossible, Silvier knew. But at the same time, he also knew, and with certainty, that it was true. In his heart there was no room for doubt.

Except the figure was different somehow, not quite like his brother at all, but faint like a shadow. It was only his brother's presence he could feel.

"Amorak," the figure said. His voice was cold, distant. He tilted his head, and Silvier felt an alien kind of fear and panic emanating from him, "You… you seek me? No, you mustn't."

"Balorak," Silvier began, then his voice failed him. His throat seized, as though something had gripped it.

"No, little brother! Do not!"

The figure stepped forward, ignored by the tentacles that carpeted the floor, then looked at Silvier in horror, "Amorak, brother, what have you _done_?"

And at that, the intangible connection to his brother snapped, and in the next beat of his fluttering heart Silvier knew he was gone. But the figure stayed. It warped and melted, like molten lead, and reformed into the shape of a girl.

She looked familiar. Silvier knew her, but his thoughts and memories were foggy and out of reach, and he couldn't figure out from where.

Behind her, the last of the crumbling walls dissolved, and in their wake raged an inferno, red hot metal raining from the sky in an apocalyptic display of angry lights and colours.

She stood staring at Silvier, her eyes pleading, moist with tears.

With the presence of his brother gone, the tentacles seemed to notice the figure for the first time. They sought her. Lashed at her legs. Wrapped themselves around her, climbing higher, until they found her throat. Slowly, ever so slowly, they slid around the bare skin, and constricted around her neck. The muscles bulged where they pressed in.

Silvier tried to go to her, to help her, but he could not. He too was entombed in a net of the intertwining appendages. With all his strength he dragged his arm up, fighting the pull of tentacles, and the numbness in his arm and reached for the girl.

As he did, her eyes widened further in fear. She opened her mouth, and it froze agape in a silent scream, muted by the crush of the tentacles that strangled her.

From her open maw came a thing that stilled Silvier's heart.

The blackness.

Indomitable as ever, it crept up and out, washing over the girl's lips and spreading down her chin, like a river of thick black oil. Then abruptly, her face went blank, and she stared at Silvier.

The blackness crept down her body, overtaking her, turning her into some nightmarish silhouette.

The fire behind her raged towards them, and, as it swept over her, jets of flame burst forth from her eyes in violent streams. Rage came over her features then. A heady, toxic rage that radiated outwards from her, and melted Silvier's bones inside him.

The blackness spread out from her flaming body in a fury.

It enveloped the walls and ceiling. The writhing mass of tentacles turned black as it engulfed them too. Slick, glossy drops of blackness spun across the room in all directions, trailing like string behind the tentacles as they thrashed about, pulled taut until the tendrils of blackness snapped, leaving behind tiny pearls of the black substance to fly unencumbered through the air, exploding in gouts of fire and smoke as they were swept into the walls of bright orange flames.

A single droplet flew in the air towards Silvier, like a steel bearing shot from a sling.

Everything else in the room seemed to become unimportant as it came at him. All of Silvier's attention was suddenly absorbed with this one, tiny droplet. He could feel all the malice in the universe pulsing through that drop. The force of it dwarfed all the power and chaos of the raging fire around them.

And, he could feel, it was somehow _intrigued_ by him. It slowed as it reached him, hovering closer, and closer.

The blackness all around him was drawn to it, surrounding him in an ever-tightening ring of dark curiosity. It didn't want to kill him, Silvier knew. It did not even intend to cause him any pain. Not deliberately. It wanted to take him, to burrow into his mind and body, and settle there. It wanted to slowly take control, drawing on Silvier's life and strength, all it could until there was nothing left.

Silvier reached with his mind to the Force, willing, _demanding_ that it come to him, that it heed him, and lend him aid to banish the blackness.

And come it did.

It enveloped him, like a warm blanket. It thrummed inside of him, and filled his veins, his muscles, his mind. Like the latent force of a birthing star, the pressure swelled inside him until he could no longer hold it.

Silvier burned with that force, feeling it almost tear him into atomic dust. He drew on what mental strength he had, harnessing the power the Force had given him, and released it.

Everything, the blackness, the flames, the tentacles, even the walls of the room, were pushed away. Like a great scythe the Force whipped from him, and sped outwards and around in an unforgiving circle, ripping the world away. It shredded everything in that room, and the room itself, until nothing was left but Silvier.

Silvier, and that single, inky droplet.

Aside from that one black, floating drop, Silvier was surrounded by nothingness. An endless void.

Slower, and yet slower still, it floated towards him, until it hovered between his eyes. He could feel heat emanating from the droplet, feel his face burning. It wanted him. Wanted to spread its black touch through every part of him. It willed Silvier to succumb to it, to lean into it. Silvier felt pulled towards it. The force was too strong. He wanted to give in. To tilt his head forward, and let the black oily droplet touch him.

He reached for what vestiges of the Force remained inside him, and pushed against it. He let it stream from him, washing over the droplet, slowing it more. Yet still it came, inching inexorably closer.

Floating in that void, Silvier was powerless to stop the blackness as it reached out to him…

"NOOOO!" Silvier screamed as he woke, and shot up in his bed.

Sweat splashed off him, and rolled down every part of his exposed face and chest, soaking the thin sheets over his waist and legs. His breast heaved, as if he felt the need to fight for his breath.

He blinked, then blinked again, trying to clear the sweat from his eyes. A single bead of it trickled down his forehead between his eyes, and followed the curve of his pointed nose, until it dangled precariously from the tip.

Just as Silvier brought his hand up to wipe it off, it dropped loose defiantly, and he caught it instead. Watching it soak into his palm, he thought of the single oily black drop in his dream. It had been searching for him, knew he was there, but it couldn't _find_ him. It had reached desperately, seeking to touch him. And yet, something, some force, had held it back, hidden Silvier from it. His own attempts to slow the blackness had been futile, but _something_ had been there, something else to lend force to his struggle. The more the drop had tried to reach him, the more Silvier could sense it struggling against the unseen force.

It had not been like any dream Silvier had ever had before. It had barely felt like a dream at all.

For a moment, he considered reaching out with the force, wondering if the blackness was still there, waiting for him as it always was. But he stopped, ashamed to discover that he was afraid.

He closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut against the pounding in his head.

His mind wandered, against his will, to the girl in the dream. He could remember her features in such fine detail, that it was like someone had etched them directly onto his consciousness. In the dream, his thoughts had been vague and mostly uncontrolled, and he could not have remembered who she was. Awake, he could not forget. Thinking of her, he was not surprised she had shown up in his dream at all. In fact, he wondered if he would ever be able to dream of anything, or anyone else again.

The girl who had ambushed them outside the Tomb of the Hutts. The girl who had shot Pace. The girl who Silvier had murdered. The memory was as vivid as the most detailed holo-recording.

Eyes still closed, he pictured her standing there amongst the flames of the destroyed AT-ST, scowling at Pace's collapsed body, blaster still smoking. He could see, almost _feel_ again, his arm coming up, hand pointed at her in a wicked grip. The several meters or so between them was as nothing in that moment. His panic, the adrenaline running through his body after their narrow escape from the old palace, his fear, and his anger, all had coarsed through him like a raging river, and through those feelings the Force came forth from him like a hammer. He could still hear the crunching of bone, and twisting of flesh and muscle as, in less than the time it took for the girl to fire her blaster, he had squeezed her throat, and snapped her neck.

The taste of his vomit from that moment was still freshly warm in the back of his throat, two days later. Or at least he imagined it was.

He shivered, then pushed the girl out of his mind, refusing to think about her any longer. To think of her was to summon the blackness again. Or perhaps, to let it free. He shivered again.

Desperate for something else to take his focus, he looked around the room to orientate himself.

The stained and sandy walls of Repp's dwelling surrounded him, and the sight of her tools scattered about the floor beside his dirty pallet bed slowly gifted him with his memory once again. Pausing in his heavy, raspy breaths for a moment, Silvier swallowed.

He had come to Repp's junkyard two nights ago. Found it with the help of Hiers. The outpost where Hiers and his men operated from had a resident medical droid, who had been assessing Pace's injuries when it found a trace signal coming from his ear, beneath the skin. Hiers had agreed to help track down the source, and it had led them here, to the junkyard. Since then, Silvier had spent the last two nights in one of Repp's workshops, waiting to see if Pace's condition would change.

Wincing at the stiffness in his arms, he threw back the sheets and carefully twisted himself until his knees were bent over the edge of the thin, flimsy mattress, and his feet sat flat on the cold, sandy floor. He rubbed at his temples, but it did nothing to assuage the headache he had woken up with.

Silvier groaned, and moved his hands further up his head to rub his scalp. His straight, dark brown hair brushed apart to let his fingers through. It didn't help much, and he quickly gave up.

Reaching down, he swung the tan tunic he had thrown on the floor the previous night over his torso, then scratched at the woolen wraps covering him from the waist down, banishing an itch from his thigh. His surrogate mother, Elstra, had sewn most of his current clothes together for him on Laccet Six when he was barely fifteen, and though he was slight enough that they did not stretch on his frame, the length was somewhat lacking - he had almost a handspan of exposed skin at both his wrists and ankles. If he had any money left at the end of all this, he would buy himself some new clothes, he thought. It was not the first time he had promised himself that.

Elstra had always been kind to him, as they all had on the mining station. But, as with everyone else there who had shown him kindness, it was born more from mutual benefit, or at best a sense of obligation, than from any genuine affection. It had taken several years for Silvier to realise that he would never really feel a sense of family again on Laccet Six, despite the closeness of Elstra to his parents. That knowledge had made it easier to leave Laccet Six the way he had, but he still wished there could have been another way.

But there wasn't, and he knew it. It was the very feeling of distance between his adoptive 'family' that drove him to search for Balorak. He _had_ to find his brother.

He just hoped that Elstra and the others would not be blamed for his actions, that they did not have to pay the price that he was not able to afford. Elstra and Mansten could not afford it either. And if they were made to pay, it would be a consequence not wrought from choices of their own, but for his. The girl he had killed had paid an even higher price. No matter her intentions, she had not chosen willingly to die. And whatever it had cost Pace, now, it was at least partly Silvier's fault that he was on Tatooine at all.

Already the price for his search was high, and all of it was, or would be, paid by others. When would he have to pay the price himself, or repay others what they had given? When would he finally feel that the cost was too high, that no more could be sacrificed for his brother? Would he ever? Or was the cost already too high, and had he decided long before that he would see it paid regardless?

Silvier sat entertaining his dark thoughts for a while longer, before convincing himself that it didn't matter, that he could not go back, now. He could not give back what was taken. Could not undo what had been done. He could only go on, and hope that the price was worth it in the end.

Belatedly, Silvier realised the small electronic panel on the far side of the workshop was blinking a red light periodically.

He rubbed his head one last time, then pushed himself up from the bed, acknowledging the aches and groans of protest from his muscles, but choosing not to heed them. In two quick strides of his long, lanky legs, he stepped across the room. He tapped at the panel.

"Human boy. Your friend wakes. Wake yourself, also."

Repp's electronic voice was still a surprise to him, and it took a second to register the words. When he processed it, he breathed a sigh of relief. Pace, awake. Not dead. It was welcome news. And not only for selfish reasons, Silvier thought, or perhaps hoped.

"Alright-" he made to reply, but stopped. His throat was dry and his voice cracked upward embarrassingly. He coughed. "Alright, thanks Repp," he tried again, lowering his voice deliberately, in compensation.

"Food?"

Silvier could barely tell that it was a question with the robotic voice's total lack of inflection or tone, and he still wasn't actually sure when he replied. "Uh... yes, thanks. That would be good."

He hadn't had much of a stomach for eating the day before, but it was empty now, and he could feel it churning at the thought of breakfast. Privately, he hoped that whatever the Onirian prepared would be palatable, or at the very least edible.

"Go to the ship. Your food will come."

The panel went silent, and the lights on it faded to black.

With one last lingering thought of the dream, Silvier took his belt from the floor and wrapped it around himself, strapping it firmly in place. He pulled on his brown, rashka-hide boots, then straightened out the sheets on his bed before stepping past it and out through the archway into the corridor that connected the workshop to Repp's main dwellings.

He held a hand out to his sides, and let it brush the rough, sandy walls as he moved through the corridor. The feeling soothed him, grounded him. It was comforting to be able to look and feel and touch the things around him. It helped to reassure him that he was awake, where things were tangible. Where things could be touched, smelled, heard, and tasted, and behaved according to the laws that bound them. It felt good to escape the unpredictable constraints and whims of last night's dream.

It felt good to be safe, at least for now, from the blackness.

Although it felt less good when he kicked a stray welding pincer lying on the floor. His boots were thin, and the pain caused him to hop on the spot several times, clutching at his now throbbing toe. He was sure the sharp, heavy tool had drawn blood, and he cursed his host silently for the careless disarray in which she kept her home and junkyard.

Despite the small delay of his minor injury, it only took the better part of a half minute for Silvier to reach the side passage that he was looking for on his left, and half that again to reach Repp's sizeable hangar bay where the _Seychelles Araea_ rested on its landing gears on the western side.

The sandy walls of the hangar stretched in a wide circle, enclosing a space roughly two hundred metres across, Silvier guessed. At various intervals up the walls, ledges circled around the bay, with metal poles jutting out towards the center, a metre or so apart each. Presumably, Silvier thought, Repp could approach a ship from any angle and height by hanging from the poles and climbing up the ledges.

Silvier swallowed, and absently chewed on his lip looking at the _Araea_. Already, from this distance, he could feel the strange presence of the ship. There was something oddly discomforting about the bulky and ungainly, shell-shaped spacecraft. Something alien, but not like the minds of any aliens he had touched before. Not like the mind of an alien he could even imagine. He couldn't put the feeling into clear thought. All he knew was that the ship made him feel uncomfortable. As if when he was around it, a part of him had been misplaced somewhere.

But Pace was on the ship, and with him the best chance he had of ever getting off this planet again, and almost the only hope he had of finding his brother. So, in spite of himself, he made his way across the dusty hangar bay floor and stepped up to the _Araea_ 's open ramp. As it had two nights ago, the feeling got stronger as he stepped onto the ship. Walking up the ramp and into the entry room, he felt once more like he was passing through the film of a bubble. It resisted him at first, but only gently, giving way at the slightest of pressure.

Stepping inside the imagined bubble, it felt as though something, some invisible force gently pressed in on him. He did not feel threatened, or in danger of any kind. Physically, Silvier felt nothing, but he could feel the channels of the Force become dulled, then silent. It was like he had plunged himself into a lake where the Force had no presence. Where the strings that held him, tied him to the Force and tugged at him with its currents, were unable to penetrate the lake's surface. He could still sense them, waiting to latch onto him again when he left the ship, and tug at him as they always did, but they were not connected to him now.

It was an uncomfortable feeling, yet in a way, strangely liberating. He felt, inside the ship, as if he was protected from the tides of destiny. Protected from the will of the Force, and from his own future. It was the only time he had ever felt truly disconnected from the wider universe, and it was both terrifying, and thrilling.

He shivered, for the third time that morning, and then realised, surprisingly, that his headache had almost disappeared.

"Hello again, Silvier."

Silvier jumped at the voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once. The ship's strange droid occupant, Bee, had introduced himself to Silvier when he had carried Pace aboard yesterday, and Silvier decided in this moment that a day was still not enough time to adjust to hearing a droid speak through a ship like that.

"Hello, Bee. Repp said Pace was waking up. Is he alright?"

"He's stirring, but not quite awake yet. I can't speak for his health, but he's alive, at least. He shouldn't be, but he is."

Silvier didn't say anything to that. He didn't know if he was really _fond_ of Pace exactly, but he felt relieved to hear that he'd survived another night. He simply nodded as he stepped into the ship's lounge and through to the tiny, one-man medibay opposite the direction of the cockpit.

On the small bed Pace lay face up, breathing steadily. Several tubes were hooked into him at one end, and protruding from the room's walls at the other, feeding medicines in chemical form through Pace's body. His right arm was out to his side, and from the elbow down it was encased in a cylindrical tube made of a clear plastic, held together by a thin metallic frame. The tube was hanging over the edge of the bed, suspended by several thin cables. Inside, Silvier could see the blue-green bacta fluid that filled the small healing tank, and he could just make out the outline of Pace's arm swimming in the center. He couldn't see how bad the injuries were through the bacta, but even if he hadn't already heard the medical droid's assessment, he could tell now from the basic shape that the arm was at least in tact.

For most of two days now, Pace had been like that, and Silvier felt a pang of guilt. But he quickly forced it away. He knew he was mostly responsible for Pace coming to the planet, yes, but it was Pace himself who had made his own enemies here, and long before Silvier had ever met him, he presumed.

As Silvier squished himself into the tiny room, he bumped and rattled several cables, which clinked against one another. Pace shifted in response to the noise, and his eyes fluttered open. He blinked a few times before it looked to Silvier that he was able to focus. When he could, he looked slowly to Silvier, confused, and then around him at the room and the cables.

Silvier could see understanding settle over Pace's features, and his head shot back to Silvier, frowning.

"I said no one goes on my ship but-" He tried to sit up as he spoke, but winced immediately and collapsed back onto the bed, and closed his eyes, groaning.

"You're welcome for the rescue," Silvier couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice completely.

Pace let out a grunt.

"He's not great with gratitude, kid. Don't take it personally."

Pace's eyes came open at Bee's voice, and this time he managed to hold his head up at least. Scowling at Silvier, he said, "Bee! What do you think you're-"

"The kid already knows I'm here, Pace. I needed him to tell me everything that happened. _You_ needed him to get you here, alive, and I needed his help to set you up in that bed."

Pace made to speak, but Bee continued, cutting him off, "And besides, if you had died there, what was I supposed to do? Sit around in this hangar bay playing virtual sabaac with myself until Repp decided to sell me piece by piece? I think I'd rather be captained by a child, thanks. No offence, kid."

Pace was still scowling at Silvier, who was starting to feel like he was caught in the room during one of his parent's squabbles.

"None taken, I guess. Anyway, I don't see what the big deal is," Silvier offered, in an effort to calm the situation.

Pace's scowl deepened. "How much do you know?"

"What do you mean?" Silvier asked, confused.

Bee spoke up again, almost talking over Silvier, "He knows I'm integrated into the ship, Pace. He knows I'm just a prototype slave-ship program. And he knows that you've modified me to include more advanced interface and protocol systems. What else is there to know?"

Something flickered across Pace's face. It was only for the smallest instant, and Silvier wondered what it meant. Was it relief, he wondered.

Pace 'humphed' loudly, then lay his head back down on the bed. Another groan escaped his lips as it pressed into the pillow. "Your program is worth money, Bee, I don't want to give Silver any ideas about trying to steal you."

Silvier was shocked at the open accusation that he might think of stealing the _Araea._ "I wouldn't-"

"I never said you would." Pace cut him off, his voice sharp. "I said I didn't want to give you the idea. Tell me, how did you get your last ship, the one you sold?"

"I…" Silvier stammered, blindsided by the question. Had Pace guessed that he had stolen it? Did he already know? He felt suddenly exposed.

"I had a feeling," Pace said, nodding vaguely. Then he gave a pained chuckle, "What's done is done, Silver. It's not smart, though, and I don't recommend making a habit out of it. And if you ever think of stealing _my_ ship, just remember what I do for a living, and keep in mind one thing," he looked straight at Silvier then, "No one that I've ever set out to kill is alive now."

Silvier gulped, abruptly wishing he could more coherently feel his ties to the Force. It would have been a small comfort to know he could call on it inside the ship.

"Yes, he's very fearsome, Silvier. The most feared bounty hunter in the universe that barely anyone knows about."

Bee's sarcastic tone did little to alleviate the sudden lump in Silvier's throat.

"'Barely anyone' is still too many, you know," Pace grumbled.

"I'm not going to try and steal your ship," Silvier assured him quickly, "I just want to find my brother. That's all."

Another grunt came from Pace, then he closed his eyes once more. "And if it comes down to you needing my ship to do it? If you had to steal it to find him?" Pace gave a gentle shake of his head, "If this partnership is going to go anywhere at all, bud - if you want any chance of finding your brother, you need me on side. And to do that you're gonna need to be completely honest with me from now on. I need to be able to trust you. I need to know everything, even if you don't think it's important."

Silvier nodded, then, realising Pace couldn't see him, said, "Alright, I can do that."

"For example," Pace continued as if he hadn't heard Silvier, "The first thing you should have told me was that you stole a ship from the Kir T.O. Agency. It _was_ their ship, I assume?"

Pace opened his eyes to look at Silvier this time, and Silvier nodded again, silently.

"Hmm. Do you know how wide their reach is, Silver?"

Silvier did have some small grasp on the company that owned the mining facility on Laccet Six, but had never really bothered to look in-depth. He didn't know what to say.

"Never mind," Pace sighed, "For now it doesn't matter."

Then, in a motion that surprised Silvier with its speed, Pace's head suddenly shot up and he turned to look fiercely at his injured arm, as if noticing for the first time that he didn't have his normal use of it. Then he spun back to Silvier, his eyes dark and accusing, "What happened to my arm? Why can't I feel it?"

"Because you got it shot, genius," Bee answered for Silvier. "If you're lucky - which you're not, because you're here - you _might_ get to use it again one day."

Pace scowled at Silvier, as if it was his fault.

Silvier spoke rapidly, "The pad you had on your arm, the thing you said was a signal locator, it took most of the bolt's energy. It diffused it, somehow. And it took most of the heat from it."

Pace's expression remained still.

A sigh rattled through the ship. Bee.

"The energy from the bolt overloaded the compad, Pace, then what was left discharged through your body," the droid said, "It found the comlink embedded behind your ear and most of the charge dispersed there. It was enough of a charge that it put you down on its way through you."

"And my arm?" Pace asked through gritted teeth.

"It took a blaster bolt directly, Pace," Bee responded. "It's in bad shape. We're repairing the damage now, but the heat from the bolt burnt most of your arm and fused the compad to your skin and flesh, and melted it _into_ your arm, Pace. It's fused with what's left of your arm's nervous system."

Pace twitched, but Bee hadn't finished. He continued on relentlessly.

"We can try to detach the pad, if we can find a proper medi-bay somewhere, with the right equipment, and a real surgical droid. But there's a much better chance you'll have to replace the arm completely."

Pace stared up at the room's steel gray ceiling, and remained silent. Silvier couldn't read the expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," he said. Inside, he felt relief that the droid had taken over explaining Pace's injuries in his calm, matter-of-fact way, and then felt ashamed that he had been happy to relinquish the delivery of the news so easily.

Silvier watched as Pace brought his good arm over to fiddle at his bare chest absently.

Before he could wonder at the significance of the motion, a clinking noise came in from the ship's entry. Silvier turned and looked out from the medi-bay to see Repp's strange mobility suit clasping it's way up the entry ramp. Several long, thin, and multi-articulated arms protruded in all directions from a spherical container in the centre. The sphere was made mostly of metal, with a transparisteel screen on its front side. Inside, Silvier could see the tiny green body of Repp, with its dozens of small, flailing limbs operating the controls inside, and the series of multi-faceted eyes spread over the flat surface of what Silvier could only assume was the Onirian's face.

The articulated suit arms grabbed at the ship's interior surfaces, searching for edges and lips where the walls met, and making handholds out of the various sconces and external cooling pipes that jutted out, dragging the suit forward through the ship. It was an awkward looking mode of transport, the limbs appearing to search haphazardly and with complete lack of coordination. It reminded Silvier of some of the multi-limbed creatures he had seen on occasion, living in the waters of the Audrai aquatic farms, where he had delivered ice to on a few occasions. They too seemed to blindly flail about with their arms, anytime they had to make their way across a patch of land, or underwater tunnel.

But Repp cleared the ramp and the lounge at a steady pace regardless, until her shell hung suspended in front of them.

One of the arms shot out towards Silvier and a tiny panel slid up into the plating of the limb to reveal a tiny chamber. Inside was a gelatinous, rectangular object, about the width, depth and length of two of Silvier's fingers side by side.

"Food," came a computerised voice from the spherical unit housing Repp, the machine translating Repp's thoughts into spoken words. "Eat it."

"Thanks," Silvier said hesitantly, trying not to let the disgust show on his face. He had seen supplement food blocks before, and he was not a stranger to them. But the dark brown, gloopy parcel of 'food' Repp's suit held out to him smelled like something a Bantha's bowels might have cooked up in a fever. His hunger mostly evaporated on the spot, but he took the supplementary food block anyway, and took a small bite while Repp watched him expectantly. It didn't taste as bad as it smelled and looked, not that that was a high bar to leap. Still, it was edible, and Silvier was at least aware that he needed sustenance of some kind, so he chewed the food block, swallowed, and smiled appreciatively, as best he could.

Repp's sphere adjusted slightly to look at Pace. "You are well enough. People ask of you. People come. You must go."

"Your hospitality is overwhelming, Repp," Pace said, grouchy. "Anyone could think your junkyard is the grandest hotel in the Outer Rim, what with you tripping over yourself to please your guests that way."

"Repp can't have your ship here and people."

"Yeah, yeah," Pace responded, then moaned as an involuntary spasm jerked his back in a brief arch.

"Thank you for your help, Repp." Silvier said quickly on Pace's behalf, hoping he sounded sincere.

"Repp honours arrangements," Repp said. Silvier opened his mouth to respond, but Repp continued before he could speak. "Arrangement ends when people get here."

Silvier closed his mouth again, the comment he had prepared now redundant.

"Hiers' men, maybe," Pace offered thoughtfully. "If it's Hiers' men, I don't think they'll mean us any harm if they're coming here. Not after-"

"It's not Hiers' men." Silvier interrupted, and shook his head. "Hiers' and his men helped get us out of the Dune Sea, and they patched you up. Then they helped me find this place, and take you here. If someone is looking for us, and they don't already know we're here, it has to be someone else."

Pace looked at him for a moment, then he let his head sink back onto the pillow again.

He let out a slow curse. "Whoever Lurderkrit worked for has a hell of a grudge, then. I guess we really do need to leave."

"Can you pilot the ship?" Silvier asked dubiously.

Pace laughed, the sound turning to a cough shortly after it came, "Me?!" he exclaimed. "Not likely, bud - I'm going back to sleep. But don't worry, the 'slave' program is _really_ advanced," Pace assured him confidently, "We should be fine."

Silvier noted the way he emphasised the word 'slave', but had no clue what that was supposed to mean.

Repp spoke up, "Get ready and leave soon."

"We have everything we need on the ship already, Repp, thanks." Silvier smiled at the Onirian, not sure if the gesture and its intention would be understood, or appreciated.

"People come soon. Go when ready."

With that, the sphere holding Repp spun around to face the ship's exit, and the limbs started clawing and dragging their way out again, until the Onirian disappeared down the ramp.

Pace, turned to look at Silvier. "Already got everything we need on the ship, huh? Did you plan a trip without asking me?"

Silvier made to protest, but Pace waved his good hand groggily to stop him.

"It's fine. I may need someone to look after me for a while anyway. And Deckiss will probably kill me if I go back without your money _and_ too injured to take another job."

Silvier kept his mouth shut. He didn't want the conversation turning to payment just yet.

Pace turned to him again, his face softer, "I'm sorry you didn't find what you were looking for, bud."

Silvier grinned back, and felt a small, childish tingle of satisfaction at the confused look that crossed Pace's features in response. He fished in a small pocket in his leg-wraps, and pulled out a small red disk.

"It wasn't a complete waste, actually. This is the manifesto and payment records of all the Ignus Crew's shipyards."

Pace's eyebrow went up, "Well Silver, I'm impressed. How did you manage to get your hands on that?" Then he frowned, "And why in the hell did we go all the way into that cursed Tomb if it was that easy to get a hold of it?"

"Repp's right," Bee cut their conversation off, "There are several speeders approaching from the north, they'll be here shortly. Pace, unless you want to leave it until the last second to get out of here…"

He trailed off. Pace looked from the ceiling to Silvier, his face suddenly darker, "Yes, Bee. I understand. Tell me about it when we get out of this dump, Silver."

Silvier felt something had gone unsaid between the two, but he had no chance to ask about it as Pace gestured behind Silvier with his good arm, "Get down to the cockpit. Sit down and strap yourself in. Bee will fly us out of here."

Silvier turned to move, then jumped as he felt Pace's grip on his arm. He turned to look at the injured man.

Pace was staring at him intently. "Don't touch anything unless he tells you to," he said.

Silvier nodded, and said, "OK."

After a second longer, Pace let go and relaxed into the bed underneath him.

Silvier stepped quickly out of the room and made his way to the cockpit, where he sat in the pilot's chair and pulled the straps across his chest and stomach.

Without preamble, he felt the engines flare to life beneath him, and heard the ramp's hydraulics outside hiss as they pulled the doors closed. Even before it was sealed shut, the steady hum of the repulsorlifts kicked in, heating up and pushing the _Area_ off the landing pad and out of the hangar bay. Soon they were in the air and pulling away from Repp's workshop through Tatooine's troposphere, and then the stratosphere, and eventually through the remaining atmospheric layers into the planet's low orbit and, finally, into empty space.

Silvier breathed a sigh of relief. He was glad to see the stars again. Even better, the blackness between them. It was a blackness that heralded calm, and freedom, An open blackness of endless possibilities.


	10. Sour Fruits

_YOU DARE TO DEFY ME!?_

_Foolish, foolish child!_

_No. Do not seek to deceive me. I have outsmarted Jedi before you, and many times over._

_Jedi more powerful than you. Better trained, older, wiser._

_You are nothing to me! Do you understand? NOTHING!_

_Your power compared to mine is like a drop in the ocean. A DROP!_

_Small. Tiny. Insignificant._

_Tell me, what did you do? Where is it hiding?_

_I will find it again, you cannot stop me._

_Do you understand?_

_Listen carefully, young one. I will find that mind again, and it will be mine. Just as yours is mine already._

_Yes, mine._

_You are mine, and I have not finished with you yet._

_I gave you your strength. I gave you the training you wished so badly for._

_I gave you more than you ever imagined you could have._

_Now it is time for you to repay me in full._

* * *

When Yaela first awoke, she had panicked. Her mind raced to piece together what she remembered before passing out, and to process her new situation. Since then, her panic had morphed gradually into fear. Her fear had turned to frustration and, finally, her frustration to anger.

Her first thought when she awoke was to wonder whether or not Byler knew she was alive, whether he had intended for her to be alive, but she had dismissed those questions very quickly once her awareness came into its full form again.

The first and most obvious clue that Byler had meant to keep her alive was that she was not dead already. Byler had stunned her, when he could just as easily have shot her with the same blaster he had used to kill Dand. He had then dragged her to her quarters. He would not have bothered with that, had he wanted her dead, Yaela reasoned. Second, she couldn't hear the ship's main engines running, which was a good sign she hadn't been moved anywhere. Or at least that she wasn't moving at present. All she could hear was the low thrum of the reserve engines, which powered the shields, communication systems, and life support functions while the main engines were on standby, or when they were shut down completely.

She had then immediately confirmed for herself that the life support was indeed still operating. She could occasionally feel the air streaming through the vents and swirling around her, tickling the skin and rustling the soft, invisible hairs on her arms. The smell in the room also held the unmistakably false and sterile freshness of recycled air.

Those observations would have been enough to convince Yaela that she was being kept alive deliberately. Had she still held doubts at that point, however, they would have dissolved when she looked to the table beside her bed. On it, Byler had left a small collection of basic food supplies - ration bars, food blocks, dehydrated fruits and vegetables, one or two fresh pieces of fruit, and finally some sort of bladder made out of an animal's skin, which held maybe three or four litres of water.

Byler had gone out of his way to ensure she had everything she needed to live. He definitely intended for her to still be alive. Which, of course, she was grateful for. But it was a bitter gift - 'A blaster that fired both ways,' as the phrase went. Looking at the food now, she could see it was enough to survive on for at least a few days. More, if she restrained herself. So how long did he intend to hold her captive? And what exactly did he need her captive for at all?

Partly because she did not know what the bounty hunter intended with her, and partly out of a childish defiance, she had so far drunk a little water, and eaten nothing. But as she looked over once more at the food, her stomach growled. Her resolve was quickly diminishing. She had starved herself for long enough that she knew it was starting to affect her judgement.

She had lost count of the hours she had been sitting, pacing, kicking, cursing, and battering everything in the room now. She couldn't tell, without any viewports in her cramped quarters, and with no holo-reader, how quickly time was passing. She guessed the better part of a day, perhaps more. But without more to do than lie on the bed and shout curses to the walls around her, while plotting and planning what she would do to Byler when she found a way off the ship, and then what she would do to Pace when she found him, her sense of time was not necessarily trustworthy.

Yaela was starting to tire, too. She felt fatigued, as she would at the end of a normal day. But that wasn't necessarily anything to go by, as she had been tense from the moment she came around, and since spent most of her time and energy on futile attempts to wrench and beat the hatch open, as well as screaming countless obscenities into the air around her. Mostly they were directed at Byler, but occasionally she had invoked Pace's name too, as she felt he was in some small way responsible for her predicament. Whether he was complicit, or even aware of it was irrelevant.

Yaela gave the door one last, half-hearted kick, before sagging onto the bed behind her. With that her thoughts drifted, infuriatingly, to Pace again. Like a dune beetle that circles back to the same dung heap for its meals day after day, her thoughts had gone no significant length of time lately without Pace making an appearance. The bastard was alive. _Alive._

Yaela almost went back for another swing at the door thinking about it afresh. For all the good _that_ would do And that notion made her even more livid. Pace was alive - and here, trapped on the _Rook_ , Yaela could do exactly nothing about it. Nothing.

Yaela let out a groan. At least, she had intended for it to be a groan. It came out as a growl instead, starting low, and seeping through her clenched teeth, then escalating in pitch and fury until her jaw came open, and it finished as something more like a primal howl of rage.

As soon as she was finished letting the sound out, she felt silly. Her only consolation, sitting there in the echoes of her cry, was that with all the electronics in the room either disabled or removed, she could be certain there were no witnesses to her childish outburst. Her Lekku whipped around at the back of her head, reflecting her roiling rage within. The silver beads which adorned them rattled angrily too, as if in agreement.

In an effort to force her mind towards more practical matters, Yaela looked around the room, assessing her situation yet again, looking for anything that she might have missed earlier. That might give her some way to get the door open, and get her out of the room. Off the ship.

The control panel that operated the room's door was blackened and inactive, the small, spent ion mine still clinging to its outer surface. Even if she were able to remove the casing that protected it, she doubted there would be much left inside that she could use to re-activate the panel itself. The ion charge would have forced the power crystal inside to overload, and there would likely be very little of it intact that she could work with. In any case, she had already tried to beat the panel casing off with one of the crossbeams she had worked loose from the end of the bed. All she had achieved with her efforts was to leave a few small dents on the top of the panel.

In contrast, the comms panel near the head of her bunk had been blasted to the point that it was near unrecognisable. There was nothing, barring a few loose wires, which would have been salvageable from the damage. Unlike the door's control panel, the plating which had covered the comms panel had been completely blasted off, and underneath, frayed and burnt wires were splayed outwards. Beside them was the wrecked power crystal that the wires normally fed into, cracked and dim, with shards lying about on the shelf and floor underneath the panel. Even if the crystal was intact, and even if she could hook the wires back in, the rest of the panel was so badly shot up that none of the connections leading to the communications array would have been intact. Short of dismantling the entire bulkhead, and half of the ship itself, she would not be able to rewire the panel and restore communication to it anytime soon.

Yaela's gaze swept down to the untidy heap of clothes on the floor beside her emptied leather pack. There was nothing there that could help her.

Her blaster, that she had last held outside in the lounge, before Byler had stunned her, he would have taken, of course. Yaela felt an unexpected pang of loss. She liked that blaster. It had taken her years to find one she liked as much as her SE-14X. She would have a hard time replacing it with one as comfortable to use and hold, and that fit on her belt without taking away from the shape of her hips.

She almost laughed at herself, then. At the inane thought of being suddenly upset by something so petty, so trivial. How had her thoughts guided her _there_? Trapped, in a tiny room on a ship and with no way out, held by a person who killed for a living, for a purpose she had no knowledge of - and she was irked by a small blow to her vanity. The thought was so out of place that, useless as it was, it helped her to feel more like herself than she had for days. She had been so caught up in politics, the shock of her discovery about Pace, and her subsequent capture - things that were far bigger than her, a single Twi'lek - that she had spared no time for the mundane. Inane and trivial it was, but it was her thought. _Hers._ She hadn't lost control of everything yet, and that counted for a lot. A thought could be more powerful than any conventional weapon. A thought had brought down Palpatine's Empire, long ago. As long as Yaela still had her thoughts, she would never be unarmed.

Her resolve, however, did not grow as she continued to look around the room.

The only thing Byler had left behind other than clothing, bedding, and food, was the small, rusty tin box in her pack. Whether or not Byler had found it, or checked inside it, she wasn't sure. She wondered if he would have recognised Pace's old neck wear if he had. Probably, Yaela thought, but would he have cared? Perhaps if he had seen it, he might have taken it as further proof of her collusion with Pace. Either way, it was as close to useless as her clothing for getting her out of the cramped room.

Strangely, he had also taken her notes on Grayare. She was initially puzzled by that, but she supposed that information on the Rebellion's activities was valuable in itself, and could be sold to hundreds of people and organisations across the galaxy, if not thousands.

Yaela sighed. Byler had done a good job of leaving behind nothing that she could use to escape.

She felt the last vestiges of her reserve energy starting to ebb away. She would have to sleep soon, loathe as she was to do it. Feeling as vulnerable as she did already, trapped in a cage like an untamed animal, the last thing she wanted to do was willingly submit herself to a state of unconsciousness. But she could feel her strength fading.

The only thing she had eaten or drunk in over a day, was the little water she had taken from the bladder Byler had left her, and two large glasses of Mingo's ale, which she wholeheartedly regretted drinking now. She knew, with increasing resignation, that it was past time for her to eat. She leaned across the bed and reached towards the platter of food. Attempting some level of pragmatism, she took up one of the fresh fruits, leaving the longer-lasting, processed foods for later.

It was a gaba fruit, she realised, studying it closely for the first time. Not her favourite, but not entirely untasty. This one had a little too much green on it for her liking, but she bit into it nonetheless. As she had expected, it was tart, sour. Too sour for her sensitive taste buds. The acid was harsh on her tongue and cheeks, and she found her face screwing up involuntarily.

She sat there for a moment, chewing mechanically on the sharp, tangy fruit, wondering how much she could get through before giving up. Then she suddenly stopped, her mouth open, and her brain firing at a million parsecs.

_Acid_ …. That was it!

Yaela had to tilt her head back to keep from spitting chunks of the fruit out as she laughed aloud, remembering something Pace had shown her years ago, in an effort to impress her. Of course a memory of Pace would come to rescue her at a time like this. It could almost have been beautiful in its irony, if it hadn't left a taste in her mouth as sour as the fruit itself.

Yaela swallowed the rest of her bite in one go, almost choking, and jumped up off the bed. She stared at the panel that housed the door controls thoughtfully. Dislodging the casing with the crossbeam had not worked. The casing was too firmly pinned, flush against the wall, and the best she had managed was to very barely bend just the corner of the casing a hair-width from the wall. But she hoped, fervently, that barely was all she would need.

Suddenly inspired, she reached for the small tin box from her pack. Opening it, she fingered the string and pulled it gently, until the warped and melted power coupling dangled from the knot at the bottom. She paused only for a moment to consider Pace's strange choice of jewellery - he had never explained to Yaela why he wore it - before shoving it inside a pocket at the back of her pants. She wriggled the lid of the box, twisting it as she did so. It took a few minutes of work, twisting, pulling, and in the end jerking it violently back and forth, until the rivets holding it together bent loose and one popped out, and she was able to pop the other out with her thumb. The lid now free of the box, she tossed it onto her bed, watching where it came to rest before she stepped up to the door panel with the now empty, lidless box.

Turning it upside down, she placed the back side of the open box so the thin edge rested behind the back of the casing's top corner, where it joined to the wall - where she had created the tiny gap. It was not without significant force that she was able to slide the box in a little, so it was wedged between the wall and the casing. She kept pushing until it was jammed far enough behind the casing to hold itself in place.

Satisfied, she retrieved the crossbeam, backed into the corner to give herself as much room to swing as possible, and hefted the crossbeam up over her head. With as much effort as she could muster, she brought the beam down onto the box. The crossbeam bounced off the wall on the way down, and glanced off the box, which sprung out and clattered to the floor. Yaela let out a frustrated grunt.

She bent to retrieve the box, and as she replaced it at the top of the panel she noted, with some small sense of hope, that it was somewhat easier to wedge the side of the box back behind the casing this time, and it slid down further, without near as much effort. Once she had it jammed firmly in place again, she stepped back and swung the beam up again. Taking care to pull the crossbeam in a little shorter than last time to avoid the wall, she hammered at the box a second time.

As the end of the beam came down square on the box this time, she felt the full force of the impact vibrate up through her arms. It was painful, but she ignored it, instead taking the moment to enjoy the satisfying crunch as the box's back edge slid all the way behind the casing, and as it twisted and crumpled under the beating, levering the casing another several hair-widths out from the wall.

With a few more jarring whacks of the crossbeam, the box drove the casing out further, and further again each time, until there was almost a generous two fingers or so worth of space between the top corner of the panel casing, and the wall. Sweating, lungs working hard, and her arms shaking from the jarring, she stepped over to the panel and flung the twisted and bent remains of the tin box out of the way. She wedged the crossbeam in behind the casing. With a little pressure, and bracing the crossbeam against the bend of the doorframe, she quickly popped the top of the casing out from the wall entirely. It tipped over itself once before bouncing from the wall and onto the floor beside her strewn clothing.

Yaela tracked the fall of the casing, then looked back up to the exposed contents inside the door panel. As she had expected, the power crystal that operated the door panel was fried, and cracked, much like the one in the communications panel. She hammered at the crystal with the end of the crossbeam gently, until the broken chunks of it crumbled outwards, and all that was left were two broken shards, dangling from wires in the space the missing crystal created. She curled her fingers around each useless shard, and yanked on them until they broke free of the wires. Like the ruined box, she tossed them behind her without regard.

With the pieces clear, and the wires unencumbered, Yaela turned and dropped to her knees. Scouring the floor, she quickly found one of the screws that had held the crossbeam in place, before she had worked it free, and took it up in her hand. Then she stepped quickly back to the bed and picked up the gaba fruit, as well as the thin, metal lid she had removed from the box. She had to sit on the bed for a moment to balance the three items in her lap while she worked. She pushed the screw into the flesh of the gaba towards one end, then stabbed the sharp edge of the box lid into it at the other.

With her contraption in hand, she stood up and moved back to the exposed door panel. Balancing the fruit on the lip of the panel, then pushing it in against the inside walls so it held itself in place, she took each of the exposed wires and held them against the screw and the lid. Nothing happened.

Hoping against hope, she switched the wires over, touching them to the opposing screw and lid respectively. She nearly started when the panel came to life. Lights blinked for a second, and buzzed. The whole collection of them flickered on and off. Then a sound that was as music to Yaela came. The door, with an infinite slowness, began to hiss open. Yaela watched with agonising impatience as, slower than a sun disappearing below a horizon, it edged apart from the frame. Yaela felt as though her heart was climbing her throat, pounding its way up in anticipation.

Then she smelled burning. She looked to the wires in her hands, to the exposed ends of them, and saw smoke slowly drifting from them. Let them burn, she thought. She didn't care. _The door was opening!_

Suddenly, painfully, a spark leapt from the wire on the right and struck her hand. Yaela yelped and jumped back. She stumbled over her crumpled clothing and fell back onto the bed, clutching her hand, just in time to look up and see the panel fizzle and crack, then blacken. Puffs of smoke wafted out, but it didn't look to Yaela like flames were going to catch. Which was just as well, she thought bitterly, as she looked to the door. It had slid barely a handspan out from its frame. She might not get out of the room after all, despite her efforts.

After a few uneasy breaths, she opened her unhurt right hand, to look at the left she was cradling. Her thumb was burnt. She could smell the cooked skin, as much see the mark that the electricity had left. It wasn't too serious, she decided, and quickly disregarded it, imagining what worse she might suffer if she did not escape from the ship.

Yaela pushed herself up from the bed and took up the crossbeam once more. She slid the end of it through the small gap in the doorway, halfway up, letting the end inside the room balance on part of the bed frame, and braced herself against the wall beside it. With one leg pushing up against the bed frame to support her weight, so that she was suspended between the bed and the wall, she brought the other up off the ground and pushed on the beam as hard as she could. The door moved maybe another finger width open, possibly not even that. But it was something.

Yaela, exhausted now, began to kick at the beam. Where she drew energy from, she might never know. Every time her booted foot connected with the crossbeam, a jolting vibration rang up her leg and shook her entire body. By the time she was ready to give up, her leg was numb and shaking. Her teeth felt funny too, as if they were loose and free in her mouth. She grunted, and kicked one last time, putting whatever she had left to give into the thrust, and it pushed the beam so violently that it rebounded from the bed frame and fell to the floor.

After taking a moment to recover her breath, Yaela moved to the door. It was almost halfway open. Triumphant, she squeezed into the gap, ignoring the discomfort as her breasts squished against the cold durasteel. She didn't care what she had to suffer through if it got her out of here. Just over halfway through, she had a moment of animal panic, fearing that she had gotten stuck in the gap, but calling once more upon her own determination, and letting out a cry of purest anger, she pulled herself through. She almost couldn't believe it when she felt her shoulder pass through and her body come loose, to stumble sideways into the ship's lounge.

When she did, she looked around slowly. Within moments, the blood in her veins turned cold. She fell to her knees, and breathed a heavy breath of defeat.

From the corridor into the cockpit, Yaela could see a rippling, dancing blue light, washing the walls with its glow. The tiny morsel of fruit she had eaten sank instantly to the pit of her stomach.

She knew what the light was without having to walk to the cockpit, and look out the viewport. It was the blue shift created by faster than light travel. She was in hyperspace.

She let her head drop, and cursed herself for an idiot. Because the _Rook'_ s main engines weren't on, she assumed the ship wasn't travelling. Byler's ship was big though, and she should have remembered that. He was towing her through hyperspace.

_To where_?

Whatever the answer was to that question, Yaela thought, it was probably not good news for her.

However trapped and helpless she had felt a moment ago, locked in her quarters, she felt it tenfold now.

"I'm impressed."

Yaela jumped at the sound. Byler's low, grating voice sent a rush of fear down her spine, compounding her sense that she was trapped in a cage. Fear was quickly replaced by anger. Cold, burning fury.

Her eyes darted around the lounge until they settled on the ground where Dand had been lying. Where Byler had shot him. On the wall, just above the ground where his body had lay, remained the only evidence of her skirmish with Byler, a blood stain that had smeared from left to right as Dand's body slumped down. Below that, on the ground, was a comlink. Dand's comlink.

" _Byler_?" Yaela matched the growling tone of the bounty hunter's own voice. "Where's Dand? Is he dead?"

"I would very much assume so," Byler said, his voice flat, neutral. "And to answer your second question... floating somewhere between here and Mak'Leth. Don't be angry, though. Please," he added, a little belatedly. "Believe it or not, I did not want to kill him. Collateral damage, you know - it's not good business. I don't get paid for making accidental enemies."

' _Accidental'?_ Yaela fumed at the dismissal. Dand was a good officer, a good man. He had died trying to protect Yaela, and he had deserved better. Far better. But Byler had shown no compunction in shooting the man.

Yaela's hands were clenched in fists. But holding onto her rage, after all her exhausting efforts to break free of the quarters, was becoming quickly untenable. Her head was swimming. She should have eaten something more. She had little energy left for this conversation. In spite of herself however, she pushed up from her knees and stumbled over to the comlink, scooping it up with one hand.

Slowly, Yaela stumbled to the cockpit, her legs aching, and still quivering from exertion. She brought the comlink up to speak directly into it as she shuffled forward. She did her best to keep her voice from shaking, "You wouldn't have _had_ to kill him at all, if you didn't sneak onto _our ship_!"

"What did I just say?" Byler spoke like a teacher softly reprimanding a pupil, "Don't be angry, Yaela."

"You killed the lieutenant in cold blood," Yaela cut back instantly, "Stunned me, and locked me my quarters. Now you're dragging me across the galaxy to I don't know where! Why, for all the suns in the universe, would I _not. Be. Angry!?"_ Yaela was starting to screech. She was not proud of it, and once again wished she had conserved more energy, eaten something. At least drunk more water, even. On the other hand, it felt good to have something other than solid walls to direct her anger at for once. And someone she felt deserved the full brunt of it.

"Fair enough, I suppose. But I promise you, I do not mean you any harm. I left you food, which I'm sure you noticed. And I left the life support on. You had everything you needed in your room." Byler's tone lifted then, becoming quizzical, "Speaking of which, once again, I'm impressed. I didn't expect you to get out, really. And definitely not that soon. How did you manage it? Not that it matters, of course, but I am curious."

Yaela ignored Byler's question, there was not a single part of her that cared for where he wanted to take the conversation. Instead she asked, "Where in hell are you taking me, Byler?"

"You do not need to know that, I'm afraid. But, as I said, I don't intend to harm you. My client has no wish for you to be incapacitated."

"Your client? I'm a job?"

"Mmm," The Bothan replied dismissively, "In a way."

Yaela grunted. She had trudged down the passageway to the cockpit now, to find her assumption confirmed. Looking out the viewport, she watched as the wavelengths of the universe's background radiation, warped by the speed of hyperspace travel, zoomed past in the familiar tunnel shape, dazzling in all their shades of blue.

Yaela looked down at the ship's controls to see they were lifeless. Byler had accounted for any outcome. Not that banking a ship out of hyperspace while it was being towed was ever a good idea, anyway. But she may have been willing to risk it in this case. She sighed. A last glimmer of hope glowed within her, and she turned out of the cockpit to make her way to the aft of the _Rook._

"How long will you be towing me through hyperspace?"

"A few days, I'd guess."

Yaela had expected a response much the same, but she felt the words as a small blow nonetheless. As she walked through the lounge, she scoured the room quickly with her eyes. As she had guessed, her blaster was nowhere in sight. Byler wasn't a genius, but neither was he a complete fool.

She kept on walking, to the opposite side of the lounge, and the blast door that led into the comms room slid open as she neared it.

"What about Reethers? Did you kill him too?" Yaela snarled.

"Is that the kid that was with you? I'm not even sure if he knows you're gone. He didn't come back to the ship before we left, if that gives you any comfort."

It did, but Yaela did not want to concede anything to Byler at the moment. She stepped through the hatchway into the comms room, and found exactly what she had expected to find. The communication panel was fried. Blasted, much like the smaller version in her quarters. She hadn't expected anything different, of course.

Byler's voice came to life through the comlink again, "By now you've had a good look through the ship, I imagine. So you know there's nothing you can do to change the situation."

Yaela said nothing. She did not want to give him the satisfaction.

"OK, I'll take that as a yes, I guess. Well, the other thing you need to know, is that I've rigged explosives around the hull. I'm not sure you could manage to, either way, but if you _do_ try anything stupid, I'll blow the _Rook_ apart."

Yaela's teeth pressed hard together, but she remained silent.

"Got it?" Byler was waiting for her to acknowledge him.

His voice was so calm, and pleasant, almost as if he were baiting Yaela into an outburst. It was for this reason alone that she did not give him one.

"Of course. It's all perfectly reasonable, Byler," She said pleasantly.

Byler laughed, the sound even more throaty over the comlink than it would have been in the flesh. "Well," he said, "It's been great catching up, Yaela, but I'm afraid you won't hear from me again until we get to where we're going. Like I said, don't do anything stupid."

Yaela felt the conversation was far from over. She wanted to ask about Pace, wanted to ask again where he was taking her, and why. But she knew he would not indulge her. He would have given her all that information already, if he had wanted her to know. And she did not like the thought of begging to Byler for more.

All she said was, "I've never done anything stupid in my life, Byler."

The Bothan laughed again, "I beg to differ, _counselor,_ " he said the word with heavy sarcasm. "Look around you, for example. Anyway, I have… _things_ to attend to over here. Enjoy your rest."

And that was it. The comlink cut off with a click, and Byler's voice was gone.

Yaela breathed out heavily. For now, there was nothing she could do to change her situation. Byler had made sure of it.

She threw the comlink carelessly to the floor beside her, and turned to her left. She walked across the room to the far wall. There, mostly hidden, was the panel she had popped open yesterday - or at least she presumed it was yesterday - and had punched her emergency transmission code into.

She pushed it gently with her forefinger again, and it popped open softly. Behind the panel was the pad with six buttons. Above the numbers, a single red light pulsed, blinking at every count of twenty.

Byler had not disabled the emergency beacon. He was good, but not infallible.

Yaela had no clue who might receive the signal, or what they would do if and when they did, but it was the only hope she had left, now.

A small, but satisfied smile crept slowly across Yaela's face.


	11. A Name Never Forgotten

_Is this not what you wanted, Young One?_

_Is this not what you asked for?_

_Knowledge and power seldom come in the way anyone desires._

_You did want power, did you not? You did ask for knowledge?_

_And have I not given you both?_

_I have, Young One, can you not feel it? I have given you both and more._

_Ah, my poor, young, foolish apprentice._

_Perhaps I have been unfair._

_I, of anyone, should know how it feels to be disappointed, to feel betrayed. I…_

_No… Calayis. Yes, Calayis once thought of his masters as kind. Once thought they would nurture him, guide him with care._

_He thought they would give him gifts._

_Like you, my apprentice, he thought they would give him the greatest gifts. Would that Calayis could have the gifts I have given you._

_The gifts of the Jedi were as ashes in a child's toy box! As rubble where once stood the grandest of cities._

_They promised him everything, but what they gave was less than nothing. They only took from him._

_They took away Alyana, took away his love. And they never thought to stop taking._

_No, they took more._

_By the end, when the fighting was over, Calayis was not able to save Kreytak. He could not save a single villager. In the end he could save only himself._

_And only that, because they underestimated him. Four they set against him. Only four._

_And when he had struck down those four of his peers in his rage, the only thing left for him that he could do was run._

_Run, and hide._

_And then, Young One..._

_Then they took everything. They took everything left there was to take._

* * *

"Pace."

Pace tried his best to ignore the voice.

"Pace. Pace?"

It was so incessant.

"Pace?" It repeated, unrelenting, but he didn't want to hear what it had to say. It was trying to tell him something, he knew. A secret.

"Pace? Pace?" It was getting louder.

"Pace!" The voice changed that last time. It was different, but still familiar. It was...

Then, as comprehension slowly settled over him, the world around began to fade.

"No," Pace said, groggily, still clinging to the final, disappearing thread of his dream. "I don't… don't want to know any secrets."

"That's nice," said a voice. Bee's voice, he realised. "But I didn't say anything about secrets."

He was on his ship. On the _Araea_. Safe. Home.

Pace had been asleep, dreaming. It was fading now, but elements lingered. He remembered an AT-ST standing over him performing surgery, and Silvier's head floating disembodied above its cockpit. He recalled a pain in his arm. Then the pain had faded away, replaced with an unsteady sense of the world around him spinning, and warping into colours he'd never seen before. Silvier's head had been trying to tell him some ominous secret, but he had wanted the youth to stop. He wanted to tell him about the incredible new colours he was seeing instead. It had all seemed so perfectly normal, all made so much sense a moment ago. He had told Silvier… something. He couldn't recall it now. His grip on the dream was loosening.

Pace gave himself a moment, letting the memories, and the corrupted logic of his dream slip away completely before he tried to answer. "I… Bee?" He said, finally.

"Yes, Pace, well done. Now, can you move? Can you get up?"

Eyes still closed, Pace lay unmoving, focussing his attention inwards. He could feel most of his body, ready to move and respond as it always had, although more stiffly, he was sure. His injured arm he could feel, if only a vague sense that it was there, and not much more. He felt a little dizzy, though, like he had been drugged.

With that thought he was able to make sense of something from the dream. The pain in his arm must have been real, and the medi-feed tubes he was connected to had likely dosed him with adaldamine to dull it. The inhibitive drug dulled his mind a little, too, and made coherent strings of thought tougher to hold and follow than normal. Pace was not fond of anything that got in the way of his thoughts, but he supposed it was preferable to the pain.

He shifted slightly on the bed, awakening itches and sores all along his back and at the base of his legs. His joints were stiff. In fact everything was stiff - his neck, his legs, his good arm, and most especially his back. He ached all over.

But he felt he could walk, if he needed to.

"I think so. If I have to," he finally responded.

"More or less, you do."

Pace allowed himself an indulgent groan. Bee pretended not to notice, or care, or perhaps genuinely didn't care, and he spoke on.

"Silvier is in your bunk, asleep. I gave you as much time to rest as I thought I could, but I didn't really want to wait any longer to wake you. I'm sorry. Can you make it to the cockpit?"

Pace was certain the droid was not at all sorry, but all he said was, "Yes, I think so. Why? What-"

He had barely begun his question when the four thick needles that that were jabbed into his body, connecting the medical tubing to his vascular system, suddenly retracted and pulled themselves out. To match the uncomfortable sensation of the needles withdrawing from his skin, the slanted tips spat a residual trace of disinfectant just below the last few layers as they left his body. A brief surge of intense heat at the last second also helped to cauterise and seal the split surface skin. It left Pace safe against infection, but the sting from both was bad enough in itself that he was forced to wonder whether it was worth the protection. He grimaced at the pain, wincing audibly, and his eyes shot wide open.

"I could have done with some warning on that one, Bee."

"If I'd warned you, you would have only complained before, as well as after it was done."

Pace looked over to his injured arm. It was floating somewhere in the small bacta-unit, the healing fluid doing whatever it could to preserve what was left of his skin, flesh and muscle from outside the limb, while providing whatever his body needed to best heal itself from the inside. He knew without testing it, from the sensations running up the top half of the arm, that he could bend the elbow if he needed to. But that was the extent of what he could feel, and something told him even that was best avoided whenever it could be.

As if reading his thoughts, Bee said, "You'll have to drag that tank around with you for a while, but for now you should probably get to the cockpit while you can. You have messages waiting for you. One is from Deckiss, and the other came from Mandor. There's something else, too…"

When Bee stopped talking, Pace lay confused for a second, processing what the droid had just said, or rather the way the droid had finished. Pace could not imagine anything that Bee needed to say that could possibly make him hesitant.

Bee had never before shown any compunction in saying what he thought. If anything, Bee often relished the opportunity to tell Pace something he knew would irritate, or upset the man. More than that, the only time he ever adopted an air of reluctance was for dramatic effect - a pause, timed perfectly between insults to provide the maximum effect; or some tantalising hint of a revelation that he knew Pace would be impatient to hear the rest of. It was always deliberate, calculated - he was, after all, a droid. But something was different this time. It seemed like Bee was actually deciding whether or not to say whatever it was he was about to say, and how he wanted to say it. _Actually deciding..._

"Bee?"

For a long moment, the droid said nothing. In that time, Pace forgot all of his superficial pains, as a knot of discomfort softly nestled in the pit of his stomach.

Finally, Bee spoke, "It's… something I need to talk to you about."

"Bee…"

"Just get to the cockpit, Pace. I don't know if we'll get another chance to talk alone, without the kid around."

Pace wanted to ask questions, but he knew Bee too well. He would get nothing more out of the droid until he moved. So the only thing for it was to do as the droid said.

"Pretty pushy for a 'slave-ship program', aren't you?" He said, mostly to disguise his grunts and groans as he started moving.

"Careful there, fleshling. You don't want to test me, not with that delicate body of yours. You're very… killable."

"Hey, it was your idea to tell the kid you were a slave program, not me."

"Would you rather I told him the truth?"

Pace laughed bitterly, "Well now that wouldn't end well for either of us, would it."

"I don't know, I'm resourceful. And I think the kid likes me, anyway. I'm not sure I could say the same about you. Look, just move, would you."

Slowly, gently, Pace lifted his head up. Twisting to raise his good shoulder, he propped himself up on his elbow, pausing briefly to breathe through the pain, and the grogginess.

Then he carefully lifted the tank that housed his injured arm up and out of its cable-sling, using his other hand to support it. He paused again, then limb by aching limb, he dragged himself up from the bed to stand on the cold, durasteel floor.

He looked down, hesitantly, and examined his body. It was bruised all over, mostly in patches, but especially along the left side of his ribs. He took in the single large stretch of black and purple there, and breathed deeply, remembering the moment he had been flung through the air by something powerful, back in the Tomb of the Hutts.

What had he gotten himself into, going down into that deathtrap?

He sighed, and dragged his eyes from the bruising over to his now useless arm. The weight of the tank tugged his shoulder downwards uncomfortably as he let it dangle there. It was not so heavy that he couldn't compensate, but enough that it would sap his strength a lot faster than usual. What little strength he had, that was.

Bending it at the elbow slightly, he raised the arm, pulling it up towards his chest to test it. The sensation of moving his arm was a strange one, partially for the added weight of the tank, but more so because he could not really feel the bottom half of the arm at all, other than the sense that it was there. He imagined clenching his fingers together in a fist, but if anything happened, he couldn't see it through the dark glass of the tank, and the bacta within. And if anything happened, he could not feel it.

Sighing again, and feeling a bitterness bubble softly in the base of his throat, he looked down to the rest of his body, uncovered now that he had left the thin sheet behind on the bed, aside from a small portion of synthesised cotton that covered his lower body from waist to thighs. He hoped strongly it was the medi-droid that had clothed him, knowing he would never have the courage to ask anyone about it.

The sparse hairs on his chest stood on end, as if currents of static ran through him. He stretched out his good arm, and put his palm flat on the metal wall of the _Araea_ 's tiny medi-bay, as much to steady himself as to see if the static energy would discharge. There was no spark.

Bee, anticipating Pace's next thoughts, spoke again, "Pace, in the compartment to your left, just below your head. I had Silvier leave some clothes there for you."

As Pace fumbled around in the shelves and drawers, Bee guided him, "No, to the left. Left. No, up. Yes, that one."

Pace had promised himself when he built the _Araea_ , that he would stock the Medi-bay as soon as he could afford proper equipment, hoping to one day make the ship as self-sufficient a home as it could possibly be made into. Looking into a few of the mostly empty storage units now, however, he was reminded that he had never gotten around to it. Still, what little he had collected so far had been enough to take care of him on this occasion, Pace thought. And then again, he did not yet know how much Hiers' medical droid had done to aid his recovery. Either way, he supposed, it was not really the time to worry about it.

Following Bee's instructions, he found the clothes - some loose leather trousers he had forgotten he owned, a pair of stiff leather boots he was sure he had never even seen before, and a baggy, woolen poncho which, thankfully, slipped easily over his head and his good arm, and over the tank that encased his other. Dressing himself, with only one arm and a score of scratches and bruises that seemed to suddenly ache and itch into existence only as he bumped them, was an awkward and painful task. It was embarrassingly long before he was fully clothed and edging his way around the bed, then out the doorway into the ship's lounge. If Bee grew impatient though, he said nothing about it, for which Pace was extremely grateful. He had had enough beatings lately to last him this, and perhaps another lifetime. He didn't need any more from Bee.

Except, he thought, the droid's silence was almost worse in a way. It was unusual for Bee not to take an opportunity to mock him. That he was silent now did not bode well. What could he possibly be computing that it was taking all of the droid's attention? Or did Bee restrain himself because he was taking pity on Pace? It would be the first time ever since their initial meeting, and could herald news of only a very unpleasant, or otherwise drastic nature.

He shook his head, casting off his thoughts, and the walls around him spun from the movement. He turned and started towards the cockpit, and his body protested through various aches and clicking of joints, but Pace decided it felt good to be out of the medi-bay's uncomfortable excuse for a bed, whatever he suffered. The weight of the tank on his arm pulled even more heavily on his shoulder as he walked the distance of the passageway leading from the lounge to the cockpit. Bumping back and forth against his leg as it swayed in time to his careful shuffling, he found himself already eager to be rid of it. Healed or no, he would ask Bee and Silvier in a day or so to take it off of him, whether the ship's medi-bay equipment was enough to handle the procedure effectively or not. He wanted his arm back. _Needed_ it back. He would have to trust his body to fix it as best it could over time, if it could at all. But for now, he just wanted the damn thing _back_ , the cursed tank off of it.

With painful slowness, he shuffled eventually into the cockpit. No sooner had Pace stepped through the hatchway than the blast-door, which he used so infrequently that he had mostly forgotten it was even there, hissed shut behind him. He flinched at the sound, the involuntary jerk bringing a new wave of aches and pains to his attention. He swallowed. Whatever it was that Bee wanted to discuss, he was scarily anxious to be getting on with it.

"Alright, Bee. What is it? What's the emergency?"

As he spoke, Pace crossed the open cockpit space to his generously cushioned chair. He had always liked the idea of spending time in the cockpit of his own ship, despite his knowledge that he lacked any piloting skills, and when he designed the _Araea_ , he made special efforts to construct a cockpit that was as comfortable a living space as the lounge. He had never regretted it once in the last two years and was especially grateful to himself now, slumping his aching body into the comfortable chair.

"It's not an emergency, as such…"

Bee left the statement half finished, and this time, Pace noticed with relief, it was done for dramatic effect.

Rolling his eyes he said, "Ok, so what's the… 'important thing' you have to tell me, then?"

"It's about the kid."

"Silver?"

"Yes. I thought his name was Silvier, though…"

A healthy pause hung in the air.

"Well?" Pace prompted.

"I… I think he's a Jedi."

Pace narrowed his eyes.

"And that's it?" He said.

Not that the revelation in itself had no gravity, but Pace had already suspected the youth's abilities to channel the Force himself. He had seen him, first in the Mos Eisley cantina, and again when they had first entered the Tomb of the Hutts, closing his eyes thoughtfully - _too_ thoughtfully. It was as if he had closed his eyes to look for something, Pace had thought at the time. Looking for a memory, or feeling he had lost. Pace couldn't have been sure that the kid had been calling on the Force, not entirely, but he had only seen one other person with that same look on her face before - the one and only time he had ever met the General, Leia Organa Solo. It was the one time Pace had been invited to a war council. During the session Leia had tried to reach out to someone - her brother he recalled - through the Force. Pace remembered the way she had closed her eyes then. It was the same look of searching.

"You already knew?" Bee asked.

"I had a feeling."

That Silvier could call on the Force also would have explained how the slender youth was able to carry Pace back through the abandoned palace, too. Yes, he had had a good suspicion that Silvier was in some way able to wield the Force. But what he didn't know, he suddenly realised in his still-dulled mind, was how Bee had come to the same conclusion. Coherent thought was challenging, and Pace wished that Bee would just come out and say what he was trying to say.

"How do you know?" He asked the droid. "Did he do something here? On my ship?"

" _Our_ ship," Bee reminded Pace, "And no. Look, he might not actually be a Jedi. But I don't think he's a Sith. I just know he is attuned to the Force, somehow."

Pace's apprehension deepened, "Bee, what do you mean, you 'just know'? Did you see him back in the workshop, did he do something there?"

A laboured silence dragged out in the cockpit.

"No. I didn't."

Pace closed his eyes, and for a moment he wished himself back to the medi-bay, where he could float in a drug induced sleep, full of peace, and whimsical, but simple dreams.

"Pace," Bee continued, "Do you remember what I told you the first time you activated me? What we talked about?"

"You mean after you tried to shoot me? Yes, I remember. What about-"

Pace stopped mid sentence as a semblance of understanding dawned.

"Wait. Do you mean…" Pace trailed off again, and sat up in the chair, ignoring the pain that shot through his body. He did not, _could not_ , accept it. "Bee, that's impossible."

"Yes, I suppose it was, until now. Except I don't know how else to explain it. Pace, I think I can _feel_ his connection to the Force. I don't know. I can feel something, at least. I don't know how to explain it so you can understand. It's as if, with the kid inside, the ship feels… I don't know… _Heavier._ No, that's not it. It's like, if you can imagine, how a mother feels with her infant inside her."

"Pregnant, you mean? You feel pregnant?"

As he said it, Pace laughed out loud. It sounded even more ridiculous aloud than it had seemed in thought.

"Anytime you decide you _don't_ want to be an idiot," Bee said in response, "I'm happy to try and explain it to you."

"If you haven't figured out how to do that by now, I doubt you can," Pace said, still laughing. He felt mildly hysteric, and realised it was probably another effect of the drugs. He tried to rein his laughter in and offer something of an apology, "Sorry, Bee. It's not that I don't believe you. But what you're saying is crazy. Actually, I still don't even think I know what you're saying."

"Whatever else I am, Pace, I am still a droid," Bee replied, "And for now, I do still have limitations. For instance, my imagination. Normally, I can create a solution for almost any problem, and in the time you take to blink, by applying limitless variations of logic, data calculation, predictive models, and whatever the resources are at hand. What I am trying to do right now, however, is explain an unprecedented phenomenon using very little other than variations, and projections, based on all my existing knowledge and experience. In terms you can relate to and understand. I am trying to learn, Pace. I am trying to be creative."

Pace nodded, "Fair enough. I'm sorry."

He took a deep breath. The drugs were already wearing off, and he could feel the pain of his injuries rising again. His lungs weren't up to much work yet, and he noticed for the first time that it hurt just to breathe. He was more than likely nursing a few cracked ribs. His encased arm sunk heavily into the arm of the chair, and the effort of balancing it, so that it didn't fall off the side one way or the other, was draining what little reserves Pace had remaining. He needed time. Time to rest, time to recover.

Time to consider what Bee was trying to tell him.

"Pace," Bee said, his voice suddenly different, "I think Silvier is stirring. You'd better see the messages while you can, and we'll talk about it afterward."

"Are you sure?" Pace asked. It didn't seem like something Bee was at all happy to put off.

"I don't even know how to explain it properly yet, anyway. Yes, it's fine. Just… just be careful with the kid from now on. I don't think he's dangerous, but that doesn't mean he won't cause trouble."

Pace nodded again, and turned to the holopad. As soon as he did, a blue-tinged, reptilian face appeared within the plastoglass viewscreen. Pace wasn't familiar enough with the Enguihans to know for sure, but he thought he recognised Captain Cordassa.

"Pacccce Averssss," The face hissed out from the screen, confirming Pace's assumption. Cordassa was the only one of the natives on Mandor who had learned Pace's real name while he was there. Everyone else who had heard it back in the temple was almost certainly dead.

Cordassa's message continued, "We are in great need of your assistancccccce. You must return and help ussss to reclaim our home again. You ssstruck a mighty blow, and our people praise the name Avelion to the ssskies. The temple is now a shhrine to honour your great gift of our freedom."

Pace frowned. He had had no intention of becoming an idol for the people of Enguirrlar when he had accepted the job to kill Revitsh. He had only decided, after researching the man's operation, that he could not in good conscience leave the people of Enguirrlar to a worse fate than they were already suffering under the man's occupation. He could not say now if he regretted the choice or not. It would not have been right to leave them under Gajo's rule, but if he had done so, Deckiss would have been paid, and Pace might not be in the mess he was in now.

Either way, he had no intention of going back to rescue them again, whatever their troubles.

Caught in his train of thought, Pace abruptly realised that Cordassa's message was still playing, and he had missed a portion of it. He did not bother asking Bee to skip back so he could catch up, though.

"... and even now they push usss back, until we are left defending our very homes and livessstock," the Captain was saying.

"Bee, skip ahead to the message from Deckiss."

"Annnnnnd, Pace, they ask for you. They asssk for you by your-"

Before Cordassa could finish what he was saying, he disappeared from the screen, cutting the audio off at the same time. For a second, Pace considered asking Bee to play that last bit again, but before he could, Deckiss appeared where Cordassa had been.

"Pace," the visage said, and his normally low, rhythmic voice sounded pressed, almost conflicted, "We could have trouble. I was contacted about a job. He asked for Byler specifically, by name. He wouldn't tell me what the job was, just wanted Byler. I have a feeling about it, though, that I don't like. And I have a tracking device on his ship."

Almost as if the recorded image of Deckiss could sense the dark glare that came across Pace's features, the man quickly explained, "Don't worry, I haven't done the same to your ship. Byler works for me because he's good at what he does, but I don't trust him. He'd skin his own mother if he thought it would bring him in a big enough payment. Anyway, I just pulled the coordinates from where his ship has been, and-"

The image froze, then vanished, the message unfinished. Pace looked around the cockpit, about to ask Bee what had happened, and hoping that wasn't the end of the message, when the door slid open. Silvier stepped through the doorway, rubbing his left eye, and looking around the room to see Pace as he swung to face him in the chair. The youth wore the same, poorly sized and simple clothes as he had the previous day, and Pace wondered if he owned any others.

"Pace," Silvier said excitedly through a stifled yawn, "You're up. Did Bee show you what we found?"

"What you found?" Pace raised an eyebrow.

"It's not much, but Bee told me where to load the Data disk. It's corrupted, he said-"

"Not quite, Silver," Bee interrupted, "I said it's encrypted."

Silvier frowned and sagged his shoulders, reminding Pace of a more young, and petulant child. "It's _Silvier_ ," he said.

"I know," Bee replied, "But then Pace called you Silver, and I think he's on to something, it sounds better."

Pace had to work to hold back a smile.

"Whatever," Silvier dismissed the droid, "So, we couldn't get much information off of the disk, but it looks like Hiers had someone work on it, already. We got a name, Pace."

"For the ship?" Pace asked.

Silvier nodded.

Pace leaned back in his chair, wondering if he should have been happier than he was at the news.

"That's great, bud."

Silvier didn't seem to notice Pace's lack of enthusiasm, or he might have assumed Pace was simply subdued with drugs, or weak and tired from his ordeals. In truth, he was both, and he was happy for Silvier to accept that as the reason for his lacklustre reply.

"It's called the _Anaxagoras_."

"Huh," Pace said. He scratched at the surface of his recollection, feeling the name was familiar somehow.

Bee supplied him with the memory he could not summon, "Anaxagoras the Hutt. He ran the Ignus Crew. He was the first Hutt to take up residence again in Jabba's palace, after everyone else fought and died over it."

Yes, it came back to Pace, Anaxagoras the Hutt. Much like his predecessor, he was feared by any sensible smuggler, bounty hunter, and anyone else he chose to do business with, as well as many of those he did not. And, like his predecessor, he had just as much an appetite for the exotic and macabre. Pace had heard on more than one occasion that he was even more cunning and ruthless than Jabba, and had been quick to establish roots in places where Jabba's own had withered and died along with him, even acquiring large portions of his assets outright, immediately after Jabba's death.

Pace had had a full plate worth of work just to avoid accidentally dealing with Anaxagoras' and his associates, back when he was on Tatooine years ago, so widespread was the Hutt's grasp. Had he and his crew not disappeared, Anaxagoras was expected to have gathered enough influence on Tatooine to build a criminal empire that would have one day overshadowed Jabba's own, within only a few years.

Pace wondered what kind of ship the Hutt had felt was worthy of branding it with his own name. And more mysterious was what Silvier's brother had to do with it.

"He named a ship after himself?" He asked.

"Apparently," Silvier replied.

"So what has your brother got to do with this ship, then?" Pace was surprised when his voice came out sharp, and he looked at Silvier, whose eyes dropped to look at the floor. He hadn't meant to snap, but he was tired and in pain, and growing more tired still, having to work to get answers out of people. His frustration had come out in his voice unbidden.

The more he thought about it, the more Pace was starting to feel like he'd been blindsided by every one thing that happened after another in the past few days. His lack of control at every step was grating badly on his ego. He didn't much like the idea of Silvier and Bee conspiring while he was convalescing in the medi-bay. He did not at all like being in the dark on his own ship, in his own home.

"And weren't you going to tell me how you got the disk?" He continued, still a little more harshly than he really intended. "For that matter, how did we end up at Hiers' base at all? How did we get away from that damned woman who shot me? How did we get away from the Tomb?"

Silvier looked up and met his gaze.

"I told you, Silver. I need to trust you. Or you can't stay on my ship."

"Alright, alright," Silvier said, bringing his hands up in front of his chest. He looked at Pace a second longer, looking besieged, before dropping them again. He cast his eyes around the room, probably looking for another chair, and when he didn't find one, he sighed and began explaining.

"After the walker blew, as you know," he nodded towards Pace's arm nervously, "The woman shot you. She died and we-"

"Wait, wait," Pace stopped him short, "She died? What, just there? For no reason?"

Silvier shuffled from one foot to the other. "Pace, I'll tell you everything I can, I promise. But I can't tell you about that right now. I just can't. Please, I need you to trust _me_ , too."

"I don't know, Silver. It seems like a pretty important detail."

"Please," Silvier pleaded again.

Pace stared at him hard, considering, feeling only a small measure of remorse for being so hard on the kid a second ago.

Holding Silvier's gaze steady, he said, "Tell me everything else, and I'll decide if I need to know it or not."

"Thank you." Silvier seemed to visibly relax then, which made the skin on Pace's good arm prickle. He felt even more concerned about whatever it was Silvier was leaving out. But he kept silent, and let the youth continue anyway.

"So then I dragged you as far as I could, before Hiers and his men came around from the other side of the Palace with a speeder and two speeder bikes. They didn't know where the bikes came from - they thought we had brought them, and I had no idea myself, until we found Repp's workshop and she asked where they had gone. When they asked about the explosion, and the wrecked AT-ST and speeder scraps everywhere, I told them what you said, that it was someone working for Lurderkrit. I told the men that they ambushed us. They didn't believe me at first, when I told them I had no idea what you did to the speeder and the walker. But Hiers said it didn't matter. He said that if you really were an enemy of Lurderkrit, that you were not an enemy of the Rebellion."

Pace snorted, throwing Silvier off balance for a moment.

"Sorry," he said, and not bothering to explain followed with, "Go on."

"Ok," Silvier said, hesitantly. "So… so then I loaded you onto one of the speeder bikes with me, and one of Hiers' men took the other, and I followed behind him while he led me back to their outpost. Hiers and the others followed behind on dewbacks..."

Silvier hesitated for a second, looking unsure. "You know," he said, encouragingly, "Dewbacks. The big, stinky things with-"

"Yes. I know," Pace cut him off, rubbing his forehead impatiently. Only a few days ago, Silvier had seemed wise and mature beyond his years, jaded even. His eyes shone with torments no child should suffer. The more time Pace spent with him though, the more he spoke and acted like the youth he was, doing his best to please an uninterested mentor, and win his attention. Pace was learning not to do or say anything that might encourage Silvier. He had no intention whatsoever of taking Silvier, or anyone for that matter, under his wing.

_And a few days ago you had no intention of ever letting anyone else aboard your ship_ , he chided himself.

"Right," Silvier continued, "Well, they were riding some of those, and they got there a few hours after us. But I had the medical droid there look at you straight away. The outpost…"

Silvier shrugged, as if in apology for what he was about to say, "It wasn't a very big set up. It's just there to keep an eye on things on the planet, and keep an eye out for friends of the Rebellion who still live there, or who visit. Hiers said they feed any information they find that they think might be useful back to the Rebellion sometimes, too, but they hadn't had much contact for a while. They're undermanned, and under-equipped, by the look of the base. Even the droid who patched you up needed repairs pretty badly, I think. Hiers said the unit was a remnant of the old Rebellion. 'Back when the New Republic had as much resources as it did good intentions', he said. They felt they'd struck a blow when they brought down Jabba's enterprise, and they wanted people to think they weren't just going to abandon any planet they visited, after every campaign or mission, to let the natives clean up whatever mess they left.

"Anyway, while I waited for you to recover, Hiers asked me why we had gone to the Tomb, and I eventually told him I was looking for some of the Ignus Crew's ship manufacturing and travel records. It turns out, during their operations here, one of Hiers' contacts lived in the palace and made a living by monitoring the activities of whoever was running the place at any time, and selling information on. He stole the disk for Hiers, amongst other things, and replaced it with a fake. They were holding onto it to give to the rebellion, but they've also had to start finding other ways to make money, to keep themselves running. So they've been holding onto this sort of thing for a while, in the hopes of selling on anything they decided wasn't worth the Rebellion's attention."

"So what, he just gave the disk to you?" Pace asked doubtfully.

Silvier looked across the cockpit and pursed his lips as he met Pace's eyes.

"Not exactly…"

"Silver?" Pace prompted impatiently.

"I bought it from him."

"And?"

"I had to use some of the money that I promised to Deckiss."

Pace swore, and let his eyes drift towards the ceiling. He let them rest there for a moment, examining the metalwork as if for the first time. Following the bumps, and ridges, and pipes, as if he hadn't pored his eyes and hands over it a thousand times before already. Eventually, he looked back at Silvier.

"How much?" He asked.

"Only a bit, not much. Less than a tenth. It's the only money I have left."

Without taking his eyes from the kid, Pace shook his head, then pointed a finger at him. Through his teeth, he said, "I'll get in as much trouble as you do when Deckiss finds out, you know? And he'll take that out of _my_ cut."

"I know, I'm sorry. But what else was I supposed to do? We had nothing else to show from it all."

Pace swore again, softer this time, and dropped his accusing finger. The kid was right. Without the disk, they'd be at a dead end, with even less chance of being able to ever find the ship. Silvier must have offered Deckiss everything he had made from selling the stolen ship, if he was that short on credits. He really was desperate to find his brother.

Pace had no reason to assume Silvier wouldn't disappear with the rest of the money, if he thought Pace was going to give up on the search. And then Pace would have nothing to show for his visit to Tatooine, other than one less arm.

It wasn't ideal, but Pace wasn't capable of doing much else for money right now, so he was not in a strong bargaining position himself.

And if nothing else, whether or not Pace liked to admit it, and whatever the motivation, Silvier _had_ saved his life back on the planet.

Pace let out a half hearted grunt. "One day, you're going to have to pay me that money back, bud. You hear me?"

Silvier nodded, looking abashed.

Pace shook his head and gave the youth one last frown, before turning to look thoughtfully out of the viewport. There, he watched the jagged-edged horizon of an unnamed asteroid spinning slowly against the backdrop of stars.

A day and a half's travel from Tatooine, they were floating in a distant orbit around one of the larger rocks, in a mostly uncharted asteroid field. Away from any well-travelled space, and away from people.

Away from trouble.

Pace sighed. "Well we're probably going to need more than just the name, but I'll send it to some of my contacts to see what they can dig up, anyway. Our best bet, though, is to get as much information from that disk as we can."

He turned back to Silvier. The young man still looked somewhat chastened, but Pace could see the glint of hope in his eyes.

"For that," Pace carried on, "We'll need a good slicer. And lucky for you, I happen to know one of the best."

"Thank you," Silvier said.

The sincerity in the youth's voice touched Pace, which brought a sour taste to his tongue.

"Yeah," Pace replied, in as absent a tone as he could muster, then swung back to the ship's control panel and began flicking switches, "Don't mention it. In fact, I'll tell you what. When we get going, if you're really grateful, you can tell me everything. Tell me what that mess you got us into back there was really all for. From the beginning. Starting with your brother."

He turned his head to see Silvier nod once.

"And Silver…"

The young man arched his eyebrows in silent question.

Pace swallowed down the sourness before saying the words, "Thanks for saving my life back there."

As soon as he had said it, he turned back to the controls, before Silvier could respond, and punched the gear to release the ship's thrusters from their orbital correction patterns. He could have let Bee do that for him, but he needed an excuse to turn from Silvier, and while the kid was on board, he didn't want to let Bee take care of all the flying like he normally would. He didn't want Silvier thinking he was redundant to the flight of the _Araea_.

"Alright then, Bee," he said, steering the conversation, while pretending to steer the ship, "Plot a jump course for Mak'Leth."

"I had the course plotted hours ago," Bee sighed, as they peeled away from the asteroid field. If the droid had eyes, Pace was sure, he would have rolled them.


End file.
